


Dahlia Potter

by Lyn_Laine



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Female Harry, Female Harry Potter, Ravenclaw Harry, Ravenclaw Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-23 17:12:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12512240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyn_Laine/pseuds/Lyn_Laine
Summary: A back to basics canonical look at only what would rationally change if the sole thing different about Harry Potter was his gender.  All canon information and interactions will be included where applicable.  A sort of experiment in only dealing with one big divergence from canon, in what would naturally occur from that, and a divergent rewrite of the entire book series.Wondering just what would be different with only a Fem Harry change?  Read on.  The differences start… surprisingly early.Fem Harry.  Teenage dating with canon sexualities but no set pairings decided on beforehand, as this is a study in the butterfly effect.  Characters will be tagged as they're included.Warning: Author tends to update so frequently that stats are not always indicative.





	1. Six Moments That Defined Dahlia Potter

“I’m a female writer, and what’s interesting about the wizarding world is when you take physical strength out of the equation, a woman can fight just as well as a man can fight, a woman can do magic just as powerfully as a man can do magic, and I consider that I’ve written a lot of well-rounded female characters in these books. As an author, none of the women ever gave me trouble, actually. It was always the men that gave me trouble, never the women. But Harry came to me as Harry, and I never wanted to change that. Because switching gender isn’t simply putting a dress and a pretty name on a boy, is it? A lot of preoccupations and expectations are different on men and women, and so the books would have been incredibly different I think.”

\- JK Rowling, The Women of Harry Potter

Chapter One: Six Moments That Defined Dahlia Potter

1.

Dudley Dursley and Dahlia Potter entered their year two classroom in primary school. It was their very first day.

The classroom seemed big to them. It had a deep blue play rug dotted with the alphabet, colorful posters of animals and travel photos on the walls, and a series of desks with a big blackboard and a teacher’s desk at the front. Their teacher wore a long maxi skirt and a bun of hair. Children ran around the classroom, giggling, laughing, and playing.

“Be good, Duddy,” said Aunt Petunia, hugging and kissing Dudley goodbye, her eyes misty. “Oh, my big boy. I’m so proud of you.”

“Do I really have to do this?” Dudley complained.

“Now, now,” said Uncle Vernon. “Be brave, son. It’s what strapping young boys do.”

Dudley sighed. “Kay,” he said reluctantly.

Then both Dursley adults turned coldly to Dahlia. “Don’t cause any trouble,” said Aunt Petunia stiffly, and she and Uncle Vernon left the classroom.

Dudley made to charge off into the crowds of students.

“Dudley! Where are you going?” said Dahlia uncertainly.

Dudley sighed. “Come on. It’s not that hard, pipsqueak. Just go talk to somebody and make some friends.” He set off decidedly and rather aggressively toward a group of boys in the far left corner.

Dahlia looked around, hesitating. Finally, she saw a nice looking group of girls over by a big fake wooden house and decided to approach them. “H… hi,” she said, smiling, her fingers twisting around each other. “Can… can I play with you?”

“Sure -” one of the girls began, smiling, but another girl looked at Dahlia and her nose wrinkled.

“What are you _wearing?”_

It was a ragged, grey, faded second-hand dress, really quite ugly but all her aunt and uncle would buy her. Her black hair was a long mess of wild, tangled curls - only somewhat less psychically painful than the hair shorning haircuts she used to get - and a lightning bolt scar from the car crash her parents had died in when she was a baby shown clear on her forehead.

“Well…” Dahlia’s face reddened painfully.

Dudley looked over from across the classroom, as if having a sixth sense for this sort of thing. He let go of the kid he’d been punching, stomped right over, and punched the offending girl across the face. Dahlia gasped, stiffening, hands lifted, and the other girls screamed.

Dahlia tugged Dudley by the arm. “You didn’t have to do that,” she whispered heatedly.

“I know,” said Dudley smugly. “You can thank me later.” He stood on a desk and called, “Can I have everyone’s attention, please?”

The classroom fell into a shocked silence.

“Dahlia Potter, my cousin, lives with me.” He waved to Dahlia, who winced as everyone now turned to stare at her. “That means she’s like my sister. And if anyone ever picks on my sister, they will get the stuffing beaten out of them. I look big, I am big, I have big fists, and I will hit you. So someone had better be nice to her, and she’d better make some friends.

“Got it?” He glared around the classroom.

“Mr Dursley! Get down this instant! We do not hit people!” said the teacher, indignant.

But Dudley was smug as he got down off the desk. His point had been made.

2.

Dahlia did end up making friends in primary school. A girl named Samantha, a girl named Rachel, and a boy named Tommy were closest. She spent time at their houses, spent lunches eating with them and recesses playing with them. They always picked her first for their team in phys ed - and they didn’t even resent it, as she was short and skinny and not strong but was also extremely graceful and fast.

One thing they told her was that she needed hobbies. “There’s nothing defining about you. You know?” said Tommy thoughtfully, when they were all sitting in a circle in the grassy field during one recess.

“I guess I’ve mostly just been focused on trying to keep from being miserable as much as possible around my aunt and uncle,” Dahlia admitted. “I’ve been making friends easier lately, but it’s harder to shake off… survival mode, I guess.”

“Yeah, you always seem pretty quiet and tense,” Rachel nodded, concerned.

“Well, we can help you find hobbies,” said Samantha bossily, as usual taking the lead.

“Okay, but there are three limitations,” Dahlia warned them.

“Okay. Go.”

“My Aunt Petunia hates animals because they’re messy, so I’m not allowed to get involved with animals,” Dahlia began.

“She doesn’t like animals?” said Samantha, indignant, as Tommy frowned and Rachel stared in disbelief.

“Look, they’re snooty suburban people,” said Dahlia in exasperation. “Proper English accent, big square house, big square garden with a wall and hedges, perfectly neat interior full of lots of white and vases on end tables and gleaming picture frames. My uncle is a firm director; he throws dinner parties. They can’t have animals.”

“Okay, we get it, they’re snobs,” said Samantha, exasperated. “What are the other two limitations?”

“I’m not allowed sports because I’m a girl. And I’m not allowed to be creative because they don’t trust imagination,” Dahlia finished.

There was a stumped silence. “I know what we’ll do,” said Tommy suddenly.

The next day, he came to school with a big list of all the hobbies it was possible to think of in this world. “At this world culture organization my mother works at, they set up people from different cultures as friends with each other,” he explained. “They have people fill out this questionnaire saying what hobbies they enjoy, and try to match people with those hobbies in the area. There’s got to be _something_ on here that fits you.”

“Make sure you like it,” Samantha clarified.

Rachel sat down and calmly talked Dahlia through it, as the choices were a bit overwhelming. Eventually, Dahlia chose seven possibilities. Books were a quiet, intelligent, and introverted hobby that she couldn’t see her aunt and uncle having a problem with. Calligraphy was the kind of creative art that wasn’t really seen as creative - in other words, the kind they could trust. Dancing, figure skating, and swimming were sports, but more feminine sports they might not have a problem with - and again, they weren’t conventionally creative. Then she chose tea ceremony and science as her final two interesting possibilities.

It was hard work, deciding what she liked, but she thought all those sounded interesting.

Next came research. She looked into it and arranged a potential schedule so that she focused on groups surrounding one activity per week, seven days a week. After that, there was just one problem.

Dahlia seemed downcast on the walk home from school one day. “What’s wrong, pipsqueak?” Dudley asked bluntly. His friends were walking with them. They’d become the tough guys around school, often getting into fights with other kids. More recently they’d become obsessed with sci fi and video games.

Dahlia explained what had been going on. “I don’t see your Mum and Dad having a problem exactly with any of it - books, calligraphy, dancing, figure skating, swimming, tea ceremony, or science. I might even make more friends at these groups. And with where my physical talents lie, things like dancing and skating might be good for me. But I don’t see your Mum and Dad allowing me to be happy, signing permission slips, or paying for anything either.”

Dudley frowned thoughtfully. “I’ll handle it,” he said suddenly, taking charge and walking ahead. “If you want to be a nerdy fairy, that’s what you’re getting.”

“Your aunt and uncle are weird,” said Piers Polkiss to Dahlia fervently.

She sighed. “You’re telling me,” she said dryly, by now able to give back as good as she got when it came to the crippling bluntness of Dudley’s guy friends.

They made it home and Dudley stormed in the front door. He threw himself down on his butt, kicked his arms and legs about, and started screaming.

“Duddy!” Aunt Petunia cried, running in the doorway. “What’s wrong? What did that girl do?” She glared up at Dahlia.

“Nothing, Mum - I want her to have hobbies - I want her to be happy - but she’s not happy and I’m miserable -!” Dudley screeched, pretend sobbing.

“Oh, you poor, sensitive, loving boy!” Aunt Petunia cried, flinging her arms around him.

Dahlia nearly snorted, fondly exasperated. Sensitive was the last thing Dudley Dursley was.

“Alright, Duddy, she can - she can have her hobbies,” said Aunt Petunia, looking torn and worried. “I’ll let Vernon know as soon as he gets home from work.” Dudley calmed down. “As long as they’re _appropriate,”_ Aunt Petunia added coldly, standing and walking up to Dahlia.

Dahlia named her potential interests.

Aunt Petunia sniffed. “Well… they’ll keep you busy… and none of them sound terrible… Alright,” she decided. “I suppose we can allow it.” 

Dahlia beamed in victory and Dudley looked satisfied from behind his mother.

“But we don’t trust all this friend and hobby business,” said Aunt Petunia. “So we’re still reading all your mail before you do. Just so we know what’s going on.” She stormed away.

So Dahlia got to print her full name on signed permission slip forms: _Dahlia Euphemia Potter._

Mrs Figg, her little old cat lady babysitter, now more allowed to be kind to her, even started being friendlier and warmer, smiling dottily and baking her food amidst her many purring cats during visits to her house with its medicinal smell and knitted afghans. Dahlia, of course, was old enough that she knew better than to say too much about it back at home. The Dursleys’ tight rein over Dahlia’s constant misery seemed to relax just a little, but it was still there.

3.

When Dahlia walked up to Aunt Petunia hesitantly after school one afternoon, she was nervous. Aunt Petunia was baking in the kitchen. “Yes?” she snapped. Dahlia jumped and then realized she was just standing there.

She cleared her throat. “I - need - glasses.” She winced. “I can’t see the board at school.”

Aunt Petunia, to her surprise, didn’t seem shocked or even upset. “Fine,” she said, not looking up from her kneading of the dough on the gleaming white counter surface. “We’ll get your prescription filled and go pick out some frames.”

“Oh… alright.” Dahlia walked away, thinking that this had been surprisingly painless. She wasn’t looking forward to glasses, though. They’d probably just make her uglier.

But when Aunt Petunia helped her pick out her new frames right before the prescriptions were stuck into them, she was actually rather nice. They’d gone to the mall, a huge and brightly lit place with squeaky linoleum, metal bars, and several floors full of gleaming, fashionable store fronts with neon signs. The glasses place was wall to wall glasses frames set on little pedestal holders. There was a room in the back for the prescriptions to be filled and set into the frames.

“Now,” said Aunt Petunia thoughtfully, bending and looking over their choices, “your face is a heart shape, and a rather thin one at that. So you need glasses that widen your face and draw attention back to your eyes.”

“Back to my eyes?” Dahlia asked.

“They’re your best feature, now be quiet,” said Aunt Petunia rather snappishly, and Dahlia fell obediently silent. She thought of her almond shaped bright green eyes. Her best feature, she wondered to herself quietly…? And a heart-shaped face didn’t make it sound so bad either…

“So let’s choose cat-eye frames,” Aunt Petunia decided, straightening, “in a tortoiseshell pattern, to add extra emphasis to that area.” She picked out the frames, and when Dahlia tried on her finished glasses she gasped in awe. Not only could she see the world clearly… but she looked better in the mirror provided, too.

“Wow,” she whispered.

“Now,” said Aunt Petunia, “I’m going to give you one extra tip. Since your hair being short isn’t an option apparently,” she added, exasperated, and Dahlia winced at that particular memory, “I’d recommend putting your hair in an updo. It’ll make your hair look less…”

“Like an afro?” Dahlia suggested.

Aunt Petunia almost smiled. “Well, quite,” she said. It seemed she had always wanted a young girl she could teach these things to. “So with your face shape, I’d recommend…” She tilted Dahlia off to the side so she could see in the mirror, then pulled her wild black curls back, showing her how it was done. “A swept back chignon. Starts at the nape of the neck, goes up to the high crown. Volume on top. Then allow pieces to fall out of the shape, softly framing your face. That’s the casual look, anyway. In more formal situations, it would all go back.” She let pieces of Dahlia’s jet black curls fall around her face with its new glasses.

“And finally,” she added grimly, “to cover up that horrid scar… you have this long, blunt 60’s retro fringe for a reason. Use it.” She pulled Dahlia’s straight dark bangs down, entirely covering her forehead.

“See? Isn’t that better?” She let Dahlia look in the mirror.

Dahlia paused in surprise. Her aunt was right; she was quite transformed. Her hair looked good, her face looked good, her glasses looked good, and her scar was gone. She realized she actually did like her green eyes with these new glasses. And instead of being short and skinny, now thanks to her sports and hobbies and increased food she was small and slim instead. Even her knees looked dimpled instead of bony, bulging, and knobbly. Her nose was small and pert, clearer now in her face. She looked in body and face both much better and healthier.

And she had friends.

The only thing wrong was the clothes. But now she just looked like a pretty, pixie-like girl slightly washed out in ragged grey dresses. She didn’t look ugly anymore.

“Thank you,” she breathed.

“Yes. Well.” Aunt Petunia sniffed, but Dahlia could tell she was pleased with her finished feminine work and its praise despite herself.

4.

Aunt Petunia walked up to her in the house one day, hands on her hips. “On weekends, I’m going to be teaching you cooking, baking, and flower gardening,” she said. “The real stuff, not the side chores you’ve been doing. My reasoning is entirely selfish. I want you to be able to do chores like this better around the house.”

“... Okay,” said Dahlia, surprised. It made sense, in a way; Dudley never had any chores while she had many of them, to “earn her place in the house.”

But, especially as their lessons progressed, Dahlia could tell Aunt Petunia’s heart wasn’t really in the selfish chores ideology. Aunt Petunia had no one else to teach things like this to, with only a son and a husband. Perhaps her success with the glasses and the hair had been the catalyst, or perhaps Dahlia was simply getting older and more successful - her grades even beating Dudley’s, though to be fair that wouldn’t take much - but Aunt Petunia seemed to want someone to teach these feminine techniques to. 

And so they began. Aunt Petunia taught Dahlia how to kneel in the dirt of the front garden before the flower beds and dig up weeds, water, feed fresh soil. She taught her how to plant, sow, and help flowers grow, when plants looked like they were dying, how they thrived throughout the different seasons. Aunt Petunia’s gardens were her pride and joy, and Dahlia just then realized how carefully she took care of them. She also found there was a sort of almost meditative calm to the act of gardening. She could see why Aunt Petunia liked it.

Aunt Petunia also taught Dahlia how to use a sewing machine, and how to make an amazing variety of foods. Dahlia loved that she got to eat everything she made, so she quickly took to this. Aunt Petunia taught her how to make everything from noodles and fruit salad to meat, potatoes, and vegetables. She taught her how to properly brew and make tea, and how to bake treats like biscuits, puddings, tarts, and cakes. They had a whole section on breakfasts. More than that, she taught her aesthetics - how to make a meal look just right. In this, Aunt Petunia - a natural cleanliness-obsessed perfectionist who prided herself on her magnificent displays - was an expert.

Dahlia mentioned one day while they were baking together, feeling somewhat freer around her aunt these days, who had become more difficult and short and less frigid and angry, “You know, I could help make food for dinner parties now.”

She said it casually, but Aunt Petunia entirely stilled.

“Sorry,” said Dahlia quickly, not sure what she’d done wrong.

“No, it’s just…” Aunt Petunia stared straight ahead of herself, a floury hand to her lips. “You could be perfect to round out our dinner party act.” Dahlia rose a skeptical eyebrow. “Think about it!” said Aunt Petunia, suddenly excited. “We have a mother, a father, a little boy - why not a little girl?” she said to herself. “It would look perfect! But you’d need new clothes. Let me talk to Vernon.”

She was now absently busy in her own mind, worrying away at the problem.

Dahlia kept silent. She decided suffering through a few dinner parties was worth an upgrade in fashion. It was rare she was bought anything as it was.

5.

Uncle Vernon had seemed reluctant, but agreed it was a good idea. So Aunt Petunia took Dahlia back to that same mall, this time to go clothes shopping in those lovely, fancy, multi-floor shops with the gleaming neon signs.

Dahlia was allowed her own style - to a certain extent. She wanted to go for a boyish yet fun and colorful look, and at first Aunt Petunia was skeptical. “Think masculine but feminine,” said Dahlia, finding it hard to contain her excitement as they stood in the entryway of her first store, surrounded by racks of clothes.

“Alright. That might work,” said Aunt Petunia slowly. Dahlia could already tell she was the kind of person who loved feminine clothes shopping anyway.

So Dahlia went for a look and then it was vetted through an Aunt Petunia filter for feminine accents, classy muted colors, and sophistication.

Just as some examples, Dahlia bought a one-piece pants dress, a sleeveless top that reminded her of mermaids, and oxford shoes, all in pastel colors. For another outfit, she picked out a sweater and button up shirt in white and pastel colors with a bluish scarf, black capris pants, and shiny flats. Another outfit was a little girl’s cute white-out suit with a red skirt and a boyish cap. Yet another outfit was a white sweater-shirt, khaki pants it could tuck into, and a belt.

She felt transformed once more in the mirror, and decided smiling that she liked fashion and shopping. 

Back at home, she began cleaning up her cupboard-bedroom, vacuuming out all the spiders busily and matter of factly, picking up everything and putting it neatly in drawers, tidying up. She had so many nice new things, including new clothes - she wanted it all to look good. Just because her cupboard was a bedroom, that didn’t mean everything she had couldn’t look as good as possible.

For her bedroom _was_ a cupboard, the closet underneath the staircase. She had a small camp bed, a set of dresser drawers that doubled as a bedside table, a lightbulb, and some shelving space. That was about it. Spiders got in sometimes, so the cupboard had to be regularly cleaned, which Dahlia didn’t mind. She was rather sensible about the whole thing.

Her cupboard shelves were filled with books and scientific texts, in pride of place being a single book of recipes from her Aunt Petunia, while her calligraphic pieces hung on the walls in the spaces between the shelves. Her swimsuit and dancing uniform hung from the light bulb switch above her bed. Her skates and dance shoes were set in a far corner. Some of her favorite finished science art projects and experiments decorated various other corners of her cupboard. Beautiful scientific posters of various phenomena hung alongside the calligraphic designs. She had a neat little shelf in a corner full of tea ceremony materials and a book of tea.

All of it, like her clothes, was carefully preserved because she wasn’t allowed much.

A single photograph of her with her three childhood best friends was framed on her bedside table, along with her glasses at night and various hair scrunchies. Tacked in a collage above her headboard were photographs of her with her various childhood groups and clubs, everyone gathered together beaming for the camera. And in her dressers, folded neatly, came her new clothes, her shoes set in neat rows in front of the bottom drawers.

It was nice - she looked good now, she had friends, she had hobbies, and there was the genuine feeling that someone lived here in her newly clean cupboard.

But Aunt Petunia wasn’t finished with her. She gave Dahlia etiquette lessons in preparation for her first dinner party. Dahlia walked while balancing books on her head so that she moved with dignity and grace. She learned calm smiles, hands neatly folded, legs crossed. She learned how to cut her steak, how to eat and drink daintily, what a salad fork was, and how to speak as politely and respectfully as possible at all times. Aunt Petunia even taught her how to edge tactful compliments into a conversation, and speak softly but loudly enough to be heard. Dahlia took these lessons and integrated them through her own filter, becoming quiet and reserved instead of soft-spoken and openly girly. She learned when to hold her tongue and when to speak her mind, the useful lesson of tact, which tallied well with her already sharp eyes.

Aunt Petunia was a strict disciplinarian, scolding and difficult and easily irritable as always, but Dahlia was a quick learner.

6.

The Dursleys always had a set plan of attack for the evening before a dinner party. 

Uncle Vernon in his formal dark suit went over it all sternly one last time: “Dudley opens the door. Dahlia takes their coats, smiling but keeping quiet. Petunia will be in the lounge, waiting to welcome them graciously to our home.

“I will lead them into the lounge, introduce Petunia, and pour them drinks. We all sit down and chat - politely.” Here he glared at Dahlia, whom he thought was quite wild and whom he had never trusted, spoken much to, or dared teach anything to. “Petunia announces dinner exactly fifteen minutes later. Dahlia leads them into the dining room and opens the door for them while Dudley asks for the Mrs arm and leads her through into the dining room with her husband.

“We should aim to get in a few good compliments at dinner, alongside the polite chatter.” Here Uncle Vernon glared at Dahlia again. “When dinner is over, Dahlia and Dudley go along with Petunia as she leads the Mrs out to the lounge again for a late coffee. The children are not to drink coffee, as it could give them too much energy, and they are not to be rowdy or roughhouse. Sit quietly. Meanwhile, in the dining room, I’ll bring the subject of a big corporate shipment of drills around to the Mr. With any luck, we’ll have a deal signed.

“But it is very important that we all behave impressively in absolutely all areas.”

One final glare at Dahlia, who sighed quietly. “I understand,” she said, trying hard not to show her irritation.

And understand she did. She played her part to perfection. Stern, dark Uncle Vernon watched her like a hawk the entire time, his eyes beady, but she smiled sharply and charmed, remained reserved, paid even better and more tasteful, subtle compliments than Dudley, chatted and even impressed with her grades and her hobbies. She never roughhoused, her clothes were unconventional but flattering, she was obviously intelligent and sharp-eyed despite her purposefully quiet voice, and her etiquette was perfect.

She was a lesson in deadly precision.

“Petunia, you must be so proud of this poor orphan girl,” said the Mrs at one point.

Aunt Petunia’s teeth clenched, but she simpered a smile. “Yes,” she lied. “She’s very important to us.”

Dahlia smiled with razor sharpness and watched her aunt with intent eyes, and no one ever suspected that she slept in a cupboard or that she was in many ways still and usually treated terribly, punished for things that weren’t her fault, forbidden from going fun places in the world.

A single, formal family dinner party photograph was taken that night, and Dahlia smiled sharply in it amidst her proud and formal, fancy family, in their suits and peach silk organdy dress. They looked cold, unaffectionate. No one who visited seemed to notice, but it was the least affectionate photograph hung in the lounge and also the only one Dahlia was ever in.


	2. The Talking Snake

Chapter Two: The Talking Snake

Nearly ten years had passed since the Dursleys had taken in their one-year-old orphaned niece, but their house at Number Four, Privet Drive in the Surrey suburb of Little Whinging never changed much. The sun always rose on the same tidy front gardens and lit up the brass number four on the Dursleys’ front door. It crept into their lounge, with its fireplace and armchairs, its neat piled rugs and countless framed photographs. Only those photographs - particularly the ones in pride of place on the mantel piece - really showed how much time had passed. Ten years ago, there had been lots of pictures of what looked like a large pink beach ball wearing different colored bonnets - but Dudley Dursley was no longer a baby, and now the photographs showed a large blond boy riding his first bicycle, on a carousel at the fair, playing a computer game with his father, being hugged and kissed by his mother.

The room held only a single sign that a little girl lived in the house. She was in a cold, formal family portrait on one living room wall, smirking and not looking particularly happy. Though she did have plenty of photographs from various hobbies to choose from - including sports like dancing and figure skating, junior swim team, science club, and tea ceremony - those were all kept with her. The Dursleys didn’t care to showcase any of them in the house, as that would have been seen as a sign of overt affection. So the only household evidence their niece existed was in that one photograph.

Yet Dahlia Potter was still there, asleep at the moment, but not for long. Her Aunt Petunia was awake, and she knocked briskly on the cupboard door. “Up,” she snapped brusquely. “Come on. It’s morning time, and Dudley’s birthday. I need some help.”

Dahlia woke with a slight start, her eyes popping open from her bed. She lifted her consciousness from misty dreams of a flying motorcycle and tried to focus on her aunt’s words. Dudley’s eleventh birthday was today. Of course. How could she have forgotten? After letting her skating instructor know last week, she felt rather dim.

“I’m getting up,” she said sleepily, sitting up from her bed and running a hand through her black curls, which were even messier than usual. She looked groggily around the neat, pristine little cupboard-bedroom space for a moment, then stood up and put her tortoiseshell cat-eye glasses on, sliding them onto her pert little nose.

She heard her Aunt Petunia walk away, heels clicking quietly.

Dahlia sifted through her neat dresser drawers inside the cupboard under the stairs, which was where she slept. She eventually chose a white sweater and a peach scarf paired with a set of high-end slim black jeans. Aunt Petunia always went with Dahlia to help her pick out her clothes. Dahlia pointed at something she wanted and then Aunt Petunia went for something similar but more “suitable.” One good aspect of this was that Aunt Petunia was her own lesson in high-end class. Dahlia had slowly learned to favor the subtle over the gaudy when it came to anything wealthy. It helped that her body looked good - pixie-like, slim and supple, built for graceful sports, with dimpled knees.

In the tiny mirror over the dresser, her green eyes striking with the emphasis from her glasses, she drew all her black curls up into the chignon behind her head, a few loose curls framing her heart-shaped face. She pulled her long, blunt fringe down over her forehead to cover the lightning bolt scar there. She’d had the scar for as long as she could remember, and the first question she could ever remember asking her Aunt Petunia was how she had gotten it.

“In the car crash when your parents died,” she had said, “and don’t ask questions.”

Dahlia had learned to get around this Dursley rule by attending science club and reading books. Unfortunately, the only thing she couldn’t get from a book or a scientific text was any genuine truths about her parents or her past.

Done getting dressed, she left her cupboard, shutting the door in the quiet early morning, and went upstairs to wash her face and brush her teeth.

Back down into the entryway, she left through the front door and walked out to the front flower garden where Aunt Petunia was already kneeling. Dahlia got down on her knees beside her. Quietly, only murmuring brief questions and instructions to each other, they did their morning tending to the flower beds with big gardening gloves. Then they took the gardening gloves off, brushed themselves off, and came back inside, where together in the kitchen they began fixing up Dudley’s birthday breakfast.

Aunt Petunia had gotten out the eggs and the bacon. “What about pancakes?” Dahlia asked, pausing by the open fridge. “Chocolate chip?”

“... Yes, Duddy likes those,” said Aunt Petunia, thinking about it, still not entirely awake herself. “That’s good.”

“And do you want me to make tea and coffee?”

“Yes. I’m going to go put out the milk and get the morning newspaper. Then I’ll go upstairs and wake Vernon and Dudley. The mailman should be here soon,” she added as she walked away. “Listen for the mail slot in the front door.”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia.”

Dahlia was left to care for the breakfast they both had started. She watched her Aunt Petunia walk away, the frame of her from behind as she left. Aunt Petunia was a thin and bony woman, blonde, her makeup, hair, and lovely classy dresses always pristine. She liked wearing little pieces of jewelry and a hint of flowery perfume to spice up her look - the Dursleys were all about paying attention to gossip and looking good for the neighbors. Aunt Petunia was not pretty, exactly, her high cheekbones overemphasized by thin, sallow cheeks, her neck just that little bit too long, her teeth never fixed by braces as a child. But she was handsome, a bit rangy and elegant like Marlene Dietrich, so together with her clothes and her sharp blue eyes she had the gift of making people think she _was_ pretty - even when she wasn’t.

Behind Dahlia, the table was almost hidden beneath all Dudley’s presents. Dahlia did feel a slight amount of envy - she never got any gifts of significance from her family on her own birthday, only from friends. It looked as though Dudley had gotten the new computer he wanted, not to mention the second television and the racing bike. Dahlia didn’t care for any of it - television cartoons, gaming, and racing bikes were all boy things, more than that Dudley things. Sort of like getting into fights at school. So she was happy for him, she supposed. He’d probably break most of it, though. Dudley, used to being spoilt, was not particularly careful with his things.

Uncle Vernon entered the kitchen, fully dressed, partway through breakfast making. He gave her a suspicious glare but could find nothing wrong in what she was doing, so he harrumphed, heaved himself down into a seat, and opened his morning newspaper. Cold ignorance and strong distrust were the best Dahlia usually got from her uncle. He was a big, broad-shouldered man with a belly that increasingly strained the buttons of his button-up shirt. He had a thick mustache, a receding black hairline, a pouchy purple face, and he always wore slacks and a tie even on weekends. He was obsessed with the news in the same way he was obsessed with corporate gain, and he didn’t like to be disturbed while thinking about either of them.

Despite the fact that they both had black hair, it was actually Aunt Petunia who Dahlia was related to, thank goodness. Aunt Petunia had been her mother’s older sister.

Breakfast was almost finished, coffee and tea fully ready, by the time Dudley arrived from his vast upstairs bedroom and into the kitchen with his mother. Dudley was a big, pudgy boy with ham-like fists and a habit of bowling people over by sheer force when he was punching it out with them. He had a round pink face, and like Uncle Vernon very little neck. His eyes were blue and his blond hair was smooth on his head. Aunt Petunia often said that Dudley looked like a baby angel. Dudley hated this almost as much as he hated his mother’s countless nicknames for him, something Dahlia had always found extremely amusing.

“How’s my breakfast coming, kitchen slave?” he called to her.

“I spit in someone’s pancake and I’m not going to say whose,” Dahlia responded from over her shoulder.

“Girl -!” Uncle Vernon began, growling.

“Relax, Dad,” said Dudley, exasperated, as he sat down at the table. “She was _kidding._ It was a _joke.”_

Uncle Vernon subsided reluctantly.

Aunt Petunia helped Dahlia take the mugs and plates to the kitchen table and put them at everyone’s places, both of them carefully moving wrapped packages aside. Meanwhile, Uncle Vernon had put down his newspaper and Dudley was counting his presents. His face fell.

“Thirty six,” he said, looking up at his mother and father. “That’s two less than last year.”

For Dahlia thirty six presents would have been beyond her wildest dreams, but for Dudley it was positively disappointing.

“Darling,” Aunt Petunia cooed fondly, “you haven’t counted Auntie Marge’s present, see, it’s here, under this big one from Mummy and Daddy.”

“Alright, thirty seven then,” said Dudley, going red in the face - both from being corrected at basic math and from the annoying tone of voice his mother always took with him when she wanted to soften the blow of one of his mistakes.

Dahlia, who had sat down at the table, could see a huge Dudley tantrum coming on. Still eating daintily, she pulled her plate without changing calm expression into her lap, just in case Dudley turned the table over.

Aunt Petunia obviously scented danger, too, because she said quickly, “And we’ll buy you another _two_ presents while we’re out today. How’s that, popkin? _Two_ more presents. Is that alright?”

Dudley’s face worked as he tried to add thirty-seven plus two with his abysmal academic grades. “So I’ll have thirty… thirty…” He looked confused.

“Thirty-nine, sweetums,” said Aunt Petunia. Dahlia, whose grades were solid B’s in her last year of primary school, shook her head minutely and continued eating.

“Oh.” Dudley grabbed the nearest parcel matter of factly, deciding this was good enough for him and he was satisfied. The beast had been fed a sacrifice. “Alright then.”

Uncle Vernon chuckled fondly at Dudley’s display of overt masculine aggression.

“Little tyke wants his money’s worth, just like his father. ‘Atta boy, Dudley!” He ruffled Dudley’s hair. Dahlia watched in utter distaste, her nose wrinkling slightly.

Dudley looked over and grinned, kicking her underneath the table. She glared at him. “What did you get me?” he asked mockingly.

“That pretend present over there with my pretend money,” said Dahlia, deadpan, continuing with her food.

“There is nothing pretend in this house!” Uncle Vernon barked in panic, his face turning even purpler. “No imagination!”

“It was another joke,” said Dahlia uncertainly. “I know that.”

“It wasn’t funny!”

“Okay… okay…”

Dudley rolled his eyes and turned back to his presents, not for the first time having _no_ idea what went through his parents’ heads.

Dahlia should have known better than to say words like “pretend” or “imaginary.” If there was one thing the Dursleys hated even more than her asking questions, it was her talking about anything acting in a way it shouldn’t, no matter if it was in a dream or even a cartoon - they seemed to think she might get dangerous ideas.

At that moment the telephone rang and Aunt Petunia went to answer it while Dahlia and Uncle Vernon watched Dudley unwrap the racing bike, a video camera, a remote controlled aeroplane, sixteen new computer games, and a VCR. He was ripping paper off a gold wristwatch when Aunt Petunia came back from the telephone, looking both angry and worried.

“Bad news, Vernon,” she said. “Mrs Figg’s broken her leg. She can’t take her.” She jerked her head in Dahlia’s direction.

Dudley brightened, looking pleased and hopeful, but Dahlia felt disappointment settle in the pit of her stomach. The Dursleys never celebrated Dahlia’s birthday, but every year on Dudley’s birthday his parents took him and a friend out for the day, to go somewhere fun. Typical guy Dudley, of course, went to adventure parks and on trips to see big action movies. Every year, Dahlia was left behind with little old Mrs Figg two streets away. Mrs Figg had lots of pets and was always so nice to her, fed her baked goods, and whether they’d been nicer in the past few years or not, Dahlia would still rather spend time with her than with the Dursleys.

“Now what?” said Aunt Petunia, looking angrily at Dahlia. Dahlia knew she ought to feel sorry that Mrs Figg had broken her leg just on its own merits, but somehow she couldn’t help thinking of the unfairness of it all in the context of her own personal situation.

“I could spend the day with one of my friends,” Dahlia suggested.

“You can’t impose on a family with other children for an entire day on such short notice,” Aunt Petunia scolded her. “I can’t imagine how angry I’d be if someone tried to do that to me. Besides, people could talk.”

“We could phone Marge,” Uncle Vernon suggested.

“Don’t be silly, Vernon, your sister hates the girl. Besides, she’s two hours away by train.”

The conversation had moved over Dahlia’s head. The Dursleys often spoke about her like this, as though she wasn’t there - or rather, as though she was something very nasty that couldn’t understand them, like a slug.

“What about what’s-her-name, that single friend of yours - Yvonne?”

“On holiday in Majorca,” snapped Aunt Petunia.

“You could just leave me here,” Dahlia pointed out, deciding to pull the conversation down to her level again. Sometimes in good moods they were willing to do that. Usually she snuck some ice cream out of the freezer and read a book over a soothing cup of herbal tea in the blessed quiet. She even got to watch what she wanted on television for a change.

“And come back and find the house in ruins?” Aunt Petunia snapped.

“I won’t blow up the house,” said Dahlia, but they weren’t listening.

“I suppose we could take her to the zoo with us,” said Aunt Petunia slowly.

“Let’s do that!” Dudley suggested loudly and forcefully.

“Duddy, are you sure?” said Aunt Petunia, concerned. “That won’t ruin anything for you?”

Dudley looked at Dahlia, rolled his eyes, and pretended at a great, gusty sigh. “Well I _suppose_ she can come,” he said with great drama and flair. Dahlia smirked wryly, raising an eyebrow, and Dudley grinned. “Besides,” he said decisively, “we’ll be able to keep a closer eye on her that way, right?

“Come on, pipsqueak.” He kicked her again more gently underneath the table. “There are worse things than a day trip out to the zoo. Haven’t you ever wanted to see animals in something besides nerdy science books?”

Dahlia subsided. “I suppose you’re right,” she admitted.

Just then, the doorbell rang. “Oh, good, they’re here,” said Aunt Petunia, pleased, going to the door. (The only one who looked horribly disappointed by this turn of events involving Dahlia was Uncle Vernon.) A moment later Piers Polkiss walked in with his mother. Piers was the skinny kid in Dudley’s gang of friends and a deadly underhanded fighter, quite vicious when he wanted to be, but usually just smarter than Dudley and full of sarcasm.

Half an hour later, Dahlia was sitting in the back of the Dursleys’ car with Piers and Dudley, on the way to the zoo. It would be her first time; as she’d said, she only had friends - the Dursleys didn’t usually like to take her fun places with them. 

Before they’d left, Uncle Vernon had taken Dahlia aside.

“I’m warning you,” he had said, putting his large purple face right up close to Dahlia’s in a rather distasteful manner, “I’m warning you now, girl - any funny business, anything at all - and you’ll be seeing nothing but that cupboard from now until Christmas.”

It was June and there were still two weeks of primary school left.

“I’m not going to do anything,” said Dahlia, “honestly…”

But Uncle Vernon didn’t believe her. No one ever did. 

The problem was, strange things often happened around Dahlia, and it was just no good telling the Dursleys she didn’t make them happen.

There had been the haircut incident. Once when she was a very small child, Aunt Petunia got tired of Dahlia coming back from the barbers still with messy curls and got tired moreso of getting scolded for it by a normality- and neatness-obsessed Uncle Vernon. So she had taken a pair of kitchen scissors and cut Dahlia’s hair so short she was almost bald and the hair on the back of her neck showed. All that was left was her fringe, which Aunt Petunia left “to hide that horrible scar.” Not even Dudley had it in him to make fun of Dahlia, who spent a sleepless night imagining school the next day, where she was already laughed at sometimes for her second-hand clothes, her scar, and her hair as it had been in its previous state. Not even Dudley, she thought miserably, would be able to protect her from this. Next morning, however, she had gotten up to find her hair exactly as it had been before Aunt Petunia had sheared it off. She had been given a week in her cupboard for this, even though she had tried to explain that she _couldn’t_ explain how it had grown back so quickly.

Another time, Aunt Petunia had been trying to force her into a particularly revolting dress. The harder she tried to pull the dress over Dahlia’s head, the smaller it seemed to become, until finally it might have fitted a hand puppet but certainly wouldn’t fit Dahlia. Aunt Petunia had decided it must have shrunk in the wash and to her great relief, Dahlia wasn’t punished.

On the other hand, she’d gotten into terrible trouble for another incident. A girl at school had been making fun of Dahlia in the hallway, mocking her appearance, and before Dudley could get to her she’d begun floating… higher and higher up into the air… and her dress had attached itself to a flagpole so that she hung there by her torn dress skirt, screaming. The worst shock had come to her after someone had managed to get her down - ugly purple splotches had suddenly appeared all over her face.

That time, the cupboard had actually been locked from the outside.

Easily the worst incident, however, was one day when one of her teachers mocked her for getting an answer wrong in class. Dahlia, proud of her normal intelligence and good grades, had felt a shot of anger and humiliation burn in the pit of her stomach. Then, suddenly, the teacher’s hair had turned blue and fallen straight sideways off his head, only to reveal itself to be a toupee.

Bringing home that headmistress’s note had been particularly terrifying, out of all the strange headmistress’s notes Dahlia ever had to bring home.

Today, Dahlia hoped nothing would go wrong. Of course, she never actually caused any of those things… she couldn’t control them. But that never stopped her aunt and uncle from getting angry with her and locking her away. So she hoped.

While he drove, Uncle Vernon complained to Aunt Petunia about motorcycle riders. “Roaring along like maniacs, the young hoodlums,” he said, as a motorcycle overtook them. Complaining was one of Uncle Vernon’s favorite activities. Dahlia decided not to give him a heart attack by mentioning she’d dreamt of a flying motorcycle this morning. The trouble she’d get in really wouldn’t be worth it.

“Hey! Pipsqueak!” Piers called to her. 

Dahlia looked over and glared irritably. “Hey. Dimwit,” she snapped back, and Piers grinned. From there, Dahlia was pulled into Piers and Dudley’s conversation. They weren’t Tommy, Rachel, or Samantha, they weren’t her friends at her hobby groups, but they’d do.

It was a very sunny Saturday and the zoo was crowded with families. The Dursleys bought Dudley and Piers large chocolate ice cream cones at the entrance and then, as Dahlia made half their desserts for them and they’d gotten more used to letting her have sweets, they bought her a third small cup of chocolate ice cream as well.

The morning was fun. They walked around, looking at the animals, reading the little plaques that came with each enclosure through the winding, clay-like roads under the open sky. Dahlia observed the animals with quiet, bright interest. They ate in the zoo restaurant, which was full of fake plastic trees and tropical monkey sounds coming from hidden speakers. Dudley had a tantrum because his Knickerbocker Glory didn’t have enough ice cream on top, but that was really the only mishap.

After lunch they went to the reptile house. It was cool and dark in there, with lit windows all along the walls. Behind the glass, all sorts of lizards and snakes were crawling and slithering over bits of wood and stone. Dudley and Piers wanted to see huge, poisonous cobras and thick, man crushing pythons. Aunt Petunia hid in a corner, afraid of seeing anything. Dahlia wandered around looking with clinical fascination at the animals on display - after living in a cupboard full of spiders, she wasn’t fazed by much.

Dudley quickly found the largest snake in the place. It could have wrapped its body twice around Uncle Vernon’s car and crushed it into a rubbish bin - Aunt Petunia would have been particularly terrified - but at the moment it didn’t look in the mood. In fact, it was fast asleep.

Dudley stood with his nose pressed against the glass, staring at the glistening brown coils.

“Make it move,” he whined at his father. Uncle Vernon tapped on the glass, but the snake didn’t budge.

“Do it again,” Dudley ordered. Uncle Vernon rapped the glass smartly with his knuckles, but the snake just snoozed on. 

“This is boring,” Dudley moaned. He shuffled away.

Dahlia moved in front of the tank and looked at the snake. She wouldn’t have been surprised if it had died of boredom itself - no company except stupid people drumming their fingers on the glass, trying to disturb it all day long. Having a cupboard as a bedroom herself, she couldn’t imagine what being trapped in nothing but a tiny tank all day would feel like.

The snake suddenly opened its beady eyes. Slowly, very slowly, it raised its head until its eyes were on a level with Dahlia’s. She gasped and stared in awe.

_It winked._

Dahlia seemed mildly offended. “Are you flirting with me?” she demanded.

The snake opened its mouth, and instead of pure hissing, issuing from its mouth instead was hissing laughter. Low, male human laughter.

“Not quite, human. You are but a child,” it said, amused, with a slight Brazilian accent. “Anyway…” It jerked its head toward Uncle Vernon and Dudley, then raised its eyes to the ceiling. “I get that all the time,” he said through the glass.

“I know,” Dahlia murmured back. “It must be really annoying.”

“You’re telling me,” said the snake fervently.

“Where do you come from, anyway?” Dahlia asked.

The snake jabbed his tail at a little sign next to the glass. _Boa Constrictor, Brazil. This specimen was bred in the zoo._

“What a cold thing to put on a sign,” said Dahlia sympathetically. “So your family is from Brazil, you were born there, but you don’t remember it. If it’s any consolation, some humans are like that, too,” she said. “I don’t remember where I come from, either, and none of my relatives really like me. They’re all totally ridiculous but they think I’m the weird one. Maybe that sounds whiny, but I’m not trying to complain. I’m not telling you any big secret. It’s just true. This specimen was definitely bred in the zoo.”

“Two of a kind,” said the boa constrictor. He put the end of his tail to the glass and Dahlia smiled, pretending to bump fists with it.

A deafening shout behind Dahlia suddenly made both of them jump.

“DUDLEY! MR DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! YOU WON’T _BELIEVE_ WHAT IT’S DOING!”

Dudley came waddling toward them as fast as he could. “Move over, pipsqueak,” he demanded without preamble. Dahlia nodded a silent goodbye at the snake, he nodded back, and she obediently moved out of the way so that Piers and Dudley could press their noses against the glass and stare in awe as the snake slowly lowered itself again.

Dahlia thought she was in the clear until Piers opened his stupid, big mouth back in the car at the end of the day at the zoo. “Do you remember that dirty big snake that raised its head up really high? I saw Dahlia with it. Dahlia was talking to it, weren’t you, Dahlia?”

Dahlia felt her heart freeze. She could have _strangled_ him.

Uncle Vernon waited until Piers was safely out of the house before turning darkly to Dahlia. And he wasn’t the only Dursley with their face twisted into a glare that night in the lounge. Aunt Petunia’s arms were even crossed defensively.

“Look, I know how it seems, but this wasn’t weird.” Dahlia lifted her hands. “I was just… being eccentric and thought the snake might like it if I chatted with it. I read in a book somewhere once that animals respond to different tones in the human voice and I wanted to try it out. It must have heard me and reacted, raising its head because of that. So my experiment proved fruitful.”

It was a flat-out lie, but Dahlia was good at making up believable stories. She was well known to be just eccentric and scientific enough to be able to pull this story off.

The Dursleys held out their glare for a second longer - then relaxed in weary relief. “Go to your cupboard for the night and come back out in the morning,” said Uncle Vernon, collapsing into an armchair and putting his face in a hand.

“But if I didn’t do anything weird, why do I have to -?!” Dahlia began indignantly.

“Because you irritate me!” Uncle Vernon snapped, looking up with his eyes widening. _“Go!”_

-

Dahlia lay in her dark cupboard much later wishing she had a watch. She hadn’t been allowed dinner, but that wasn’t going to stop her from eating. Her plan was just to sneak out and steal food after everyone else had gone to bed. But as she didn’t know what time it was, she couldn’t be sure all the Dursleys were asleep yet - so she’d have to guess.

She’d lived with the Dursleys almost ten years, ten miserable years of never quite fitting in with her family and being blamed for a constant string of weird happenstances that weren’t her fault, as long as she could remember, ever since she’d been a baby and her parents had died in the car crash. She couldn’t remember being in the car when her parents had died. Sometimes, when she strained her memory during long hours in her cupboard, she came up with a strange vision: a blinding flash of green light and a burning pain on her forehead. This, she supposed, was the car crash, though she couldn’t imagine where all the green light came from. She couldn’t remember her parents at all. Her aunt and uncle never spoke about them, and of course she was forbidden to ask questions. There were no photographs of them in the house.

When she had been younger, Dahlia had dreamed and dreamed of some unknown relation coming to take her away, but it had never happened; the cold Dursleys with their gossipy climbing, gleaming kitchen, and dinner parties were her only family. Yet sometimes she thought that strangers in the street seemed to know her. Very strange strangers they were, too. A tiny man in a violet top hat had bowed to her once while out shopping with Aunt Petunia and Dudley. After asking Dahlia furiously if she knew the man, Aunt Petunia had rushed them out of the shop without buying anything. A wild-looking old woman dressed all in green had waved merrily to her once on a bus. A bald man in a very long purple coat had actually walked up to her in the street the other day, bowed over her hand, and kissed it like she was a princess. Then he’d walked away again without saying a word. The weirdest thing about all these people was the way they seemed to vanish the second Dahlia tried to get a closer look.

Dahlia had her friends of course - Mrs Figg, Samantha, Tommy, Rachel, the people she met through hobbies. She had the hobbies themselves, too - books, calligraphy, science, tea ceremony, dancing, swimming, and figure skating. She had nice clothes, boyish yet feminine, nice accessories and hairstyles, and a clean, neatly decorated little space for herself, cupboard or not. She had plenty of solid life skills, pretty good grades. And her aunt and cousin weren’t always horrible to her. When they wanted to be, they could be positively nice.

So she did have a life. She didn’t cling to these memories of strange occurrences. Actually, they rather unnerved her.


	3. The Letters From No One

Chapter Three: The Letters From No One

School let out and the summer holidays started. Within two weeks, Dudley had already broken his new video camera, crashed his remote controlled aeroplane, and first time out on his racing bike, knocked down old Mrs Figg as she crossed Privet Drive on her crutches. Dahlia had genuinely yelled at him over this one, for hurting poor little old Mrs Figg, and though he’d been irritated to his credit Dudley had also seemed genuinely sheepish.

Dudley’s gang - Piers, Dennis, Malcolm, and Gordon - came over to the house every day during summertimes. Dudley was their leader and also the one with the parents most likely to spoil him. Hence, his house was chosen.

Dahlia spent most of her time out of the house. Her hobbies always took summers off, but she had plenty of friends whose houses she could visit. There were sleepovers, pool parties, and hangout times to be had. There was female friend drama, girls insulting each other, hours talking on the phone, sharing beauty tips. Lots to keep her occupied. So she was quite busy.

When September came she would be going off to secondary school and, for the first time in her life, she wouldn’t be with Dudley. Dudley had been accepted at Uncle Vernon’s old private school, Smeltings, a boarding school. Piers would be going there, too. Dahlia’s schooling had been a topic of hot debate between her aunt and uncle. Aunt Petunia wanted an old-fashioned finishing school, some fancy place in Sweden, while Uncle Vernon insisted that was far too expensive for the likes of Dahlia and wanted to send her to Stonewall High, the local public school. It surprised Dahlia that he’d want her around, but she supposed money won over for him in the end.

As he usually did in the subjects not desperately vital to household wellbeing, Uncle Vernon won. Aunt Petunia chose her battles too carefully for Dahlia to be sent to Sweden. So she was going to Stonewall High, which frankly sounded almost better than a finishing school.

Dudley was worried. “I heard they stuff people’s heads down the toilet the first day at Stonewall,” he told Dahlia. “Do you think that’s just a guy thing? Do they do that sort of thing to girls?”

“Dudley, how should I know?” Dahlia sighed. “Don’t worry, I’ll be _fine,”_ she added.

“That remains to be seen,” said Dudley imperiously. “You’re puny. I don’t like that I won’t be around to protect you.”

One day in July, Aunt Petunia took Dudley and Dahlia up to London to buy their school uniforms. Dahlia had never been to London before. Aunt Petunia actually cursed with how much trouble she had parking, which was incredibly expensive, but after that it was fun walking around the bustling roads lined with shops. They were here on business, however, so most of their time in London was spent picking out uniforms. Dahlia’s was a simple grey skirt and jacket set with a white shirt underneath.

She supposed there could be worse things.

That evening, Dahlia was ordered to put her new uniform away in her cupboard while Dudley paraded around the living room for the family in his. Smeltings’ boys wore maroon tailcoats, orange knickerbockers, and flat straw hats called boaters. They also carried knobbly sticks, used for hitting each other while the teachers weren’t looking. This was supposed to be good training for later life.

It figured that sort of thing would happen at an all-boys school. It also figured that Uncle Vernon had attended there.

As he looked at Dudley in his new knickerbockers, Uncle Vernon said gruffly that it was the proudest moment of his life. Aunt Petunia burst into tears and said she couldn’t believe it was her ickle Dudleykins; he looked so handsome and grown-up. Dahlia wanted to ask if all fancy school uniforms were that awful but was afraid someone would get angry with her, so instead she sat in silent horror, suppressing mad giggles. She couldn’t help but imagine having attended that finishing school in Sweden in something furry and pink, and a little shudder went up her spine even as her shoulders shook with suppressed giggles.

-

The next morning started out quite normal.

Aunt Petunia and Dahlia put breakfast on the table. Uncle Vernon sat down and opened his morning newspaper as usual. Dudley banged his Smelting stick, which he carried everywhere, on the table like it proved his budding manhood or something. Everyone sat down to eat.

They heard the click of the mail slot and the flop of letters on the doormat.

“Get the mail, Dudley,” said Uncle Vernon from behind his paper.

“Make Dahlia get it.”

“Get the mail, Dahlia.”

“Make Dudley get it.”

Uncle Vernon finally put down a flap of his newspaper and glared at Dahlia. “Get the mail,” he said meaningfully.

Dahlia glared at Dudley, who smirked. Then she gave an explosive sigh at the unfairness of life, stood up, and stomped out into the hall to get the mail.

Three things lay on the doormat: a postcard from Uncle Vernon’s sister Marge, who was vacationing on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope that looked like a bill, and a letter for Dahlia. Probably from a friend or the library. Did she have any late books out? She didn’t think so.

Picking the letter up curiously - it was far from the first one she’d gotten, or even the first kind one - the first thing she noticed was that it was rather odd. There was no stamp and no return address. She had no idea who the letter was from or how it had gotten here. The address itself was written on a thick and heavy, yellowish parchment envelope in emerald green ink. It was almost like when her female friends wrote notes to her in class using pink gel pens, except this seemed more official in dark green and the writing was fancy, dignified, and Italianate. Obviously adult.

The address was funny, too:

_Miss D. Potter_

_The Cupboard under the Stairs_

_4 Privet Drive_

_Little Whinging_

_Surrey_

It was creepy… because not even her friends outside the house knew where she slept. No one did. Only the three people already sitting here.

Turning the envelope over, suddenly searching, Dahlia saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms: a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter H. “Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus,” said tiny Latin letters around the seal.

“Hurry up, girl!” shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen. “What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?” He chuckled at his own joke. Dahlia had decided long ago never to marry a man who laughed at his own jokes. If he did it on their wedding day, she was walking straight out of her own ceremony.

Dahlia went back into the kitchen, still gazing, puzzled, at her letter. Then she handed all three envelopes to Uncle Vernon, used to her aunt and uncle reading her mail before she did. “I got a letter,” she said, sitting back down. “Probably from the library or a friend. I’m thinking a friend, because it might be someone playing a prank. I don’t know, the address is kind of weird.”

Uncle Vernon ripped open the bill, snorted in disgust, and flipped over the postcard.

“Marge’s ill,” he informed Aunt Petunia, “ate a funny whelk. Anyway, let’s see what the girl got.” He sneered slightly as he said the words. He picked up the yellowish parchment envelope -

And, like Dahlia had, he frowned.

Then he slit open the envelope, picked out the letter, shook it open with one hand and glanced at it. The letter was made of the same yellowish parchment as the envelope. Dahlia just had time to notice this before she took in her uncle’s reaction. It was quite fast, and quite remarkable.

His face went from red to green faster than a set of traffic lights. And it didn’t stop there. Within seconds it was the greyish-white of old porridge. 

“P-P-Petunia!” he gasped.

Dudley tried to grab the letter to read it, curious, but Uncle Vernon held it high out of his reach and quite frankly it was rare that Uncle Vernon denied Dudley anything. Dudley was his prized son. Aunt Petunia took the letter curiously and read the first line. For a moment it looked as though she might faint. She clutched her throat and made a choking noise -

Then she looked around to Dahlia, who was still sitting there very confused, and dark fury filled her expression. Dahlia had never seen her aunt look as bitter and murderous as she did in that moment. She started toward Dahlia, who stood and backed up reflexively.

Dudley got between them. “Whoa, Mum, Mum.” He put out his hands.

Aunt Petunia paused, but her furious glare was still fixed on Dahlia. Uncle Vernon stood and put his hands on her shoulders, for once the calm and reasonable one where Dahlia was concerned. “Petunia. No,” he said quietly. “At least, not right now.”

The weirdest part was, Dahlia still had _no_ idea why her aunt was angry or what she was being protected from.

“What’s going on?” she said at last. “I think I’m entitled to know.”

“Yeah, Dad, what’s happening?” said Dudley, loud and forceful because he was scared.

“Get out, both of you,” croaked Uncle Vernon, stuffing the letter back inside its envelope. That was it. The door was shut.

Choking back a sudden lump in her throat, Dahlia pulled at Dudley, who didn’t seem to want to leave. “Come on,” she said quietly, her eyes full and meaningful. “Let’s go.”

She and Dudley left the kitchen, shutting the door - then turned to look at each other. They nodded, and knelt down quickly, sharing a peep through the kitchen door’s keyhole and listening closely.

“That girl tricked me,” said Aunt Petunia, sounding angry and full of grief. “I’ve been so stupid. I should have known all along… what would happen. Just like her mother.” That one last sentence was full of more spite than Dahlia had ever felt in her entire life put together.

Aunt Petunia had sat down, shaken, while Uncle Vernon was pacing.

“She still doesn’t know,” said Uncle Vernon. “We have to keep it that way.”

“I say we lock her in that cupboard forever!” said Aunt Petunia fiercely. “Never let her out again!” Dahlia felt a jump of fear and Dudley tensed beside her.

“No,” Uncle Vernon barked, “that’s not a good idea.”

“Vernon -!”

“Don’t you understand, Petunia?!” He turned to her suddenly, shouting, his face red and his eyes wild. “Haven’t you seen the address?! They know where she sleeps! They’re… they’re watching the house… spying… might be having us followed…” He was now pacing again, muttering somewhat madly to himself.

Aunt Petunia's form in the chair, her back to them, suddenly slumped. “Oh my God…” She put a hand to her mouth as if in realization, her voice trembling. “What should we do, Vernon? Should we write back? Tell them we don’t want -”

Uncle Vernon was silent and pacing for a long stretch before he finally spoke, his temple working with thought.

“No,” he said finally. “No, we’ll ignore it. If they don’t get an answer… yes, that’s best… we won’t do anything…”

“But -”

Uncle Vernon whirled to his wife again.

“I’m not having one in the house, Petunia! I’ve been watching that _girl_ since day one and I’m not having it! Didn’t we swear when we took her in we’d stamp out that dangerous nonsense?”

Dudley and Dahlia sat back, sitting slowly on the staircase bottom step, each one as confused as the other.

“What the hell does all that mean?” Dudley finally asked, bewildered.

“... I don’t know,” Dahlia admitted softly, her mind spinning.

-

The rest of the day wasn’t fun. Aunt Petunia seemed determined to treat Dahlia as coldly, snobbishly, sarcastically, and bitterly as possible. Dahlia finally confined herself to her cupboard-room.

But that evening when he got back from work, Uncle Vernon did something he’d never done before; he visited Dahlia in her cupboard.

When Uncle Vernon had squeezed through the floor, Dahlia immediately asked, “Who was that letter from? What’s going on? Aunt Petunia won’t say anything.”

“You were right; it was a prank,” said Uncle Vernon shortly. “Just a silly prank. A mistake. I have burned it.”

“... Okay,” said Dahlia neutrally at last. She knew it wasn’t a prank, wasn’t a mistake. The letter had gotten her exact address correct, right down to the space in the house she slept in. Just the address had known things nobody was supposed to know. And that reaction this morning had not been the reaction to a prank.

But realistically, was there any way of getting Uncle Vernon to tell her the truth? No.

Uncle Vernon paused, and then forced his face into a smile, which looked quite eerie and painful in a way that was somehow emphasized by this tiny, confined space. Like when Uncle Vernon got too close to her to threaten her, it felt creepy.

“Er - yes, Dahlia - about this cupboard. Your aunt and I have been thinking… you’re really getting a bit big for it… we think it might be nice if you moved into Dudley’s second bedroom.”

“Why?” said Dahlia.

“Don’t ask questions!” snapped her uncle. “Take this stuff upstairs, now.”

The Dursleys’ house had four bedrooms: one for Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, one for visitors (usually Uncle Vernon’s sister Marge), one where Dudley slept, and one where Dudley kept all the toys and things that wouldn’t fit into his first bedroom. Dahlia moved everything she had from the cupboard to this bedroom while Dudley, helpfully, moved everything out and into the basement.

“Don’t worry,” he huffed as he began working. “I’m a big guy and you need a space. I can handle it. Hey, pipsqueak,” he added. “You do realize how serious this is, right? My parents once thought you levitated a girl onto a flagpole and they still didn’t give you a bedroom.

“I don’t know who these people are, but they must be scary as shit.”

He gave Dahlia with a lot to think about as he began pushing something out of the bedroom doorway and down the staircase.

Dudley only kept the bed, the wardrobe, the window curtains, the desk, and the bedside table in the room. Nearly everything he moved out of the room was broken. The month-old video camera had been lying on top of a small, working tank Dudley had once driven over the next door neighbor’s dog. In the corner had been Dudley’s first-ever television set, which he’d put his foot through when his favorite program had been canceled. There had been a large birdcage, which had once held a parrot that Dudley had swapped at school for an air rifle, which had been up on a shelf with the end all bent because Dudley had sat on it. Other shelves had been full of books, the only things in the room that looked as though they had never been touched.

But all that was cleared away now, and Dahlia’s somewhat more meager collection replaced it.

The bookshelves were filled with her own, much more cared for, well worn, and used books and scientific texts. In pride of place in the center was the book of recipes from Aunt Petunia, who now seemed to hate her and was refusing to go anywhere near her new bedroom. One little shelf in the corner was full of tea ceremony materials and carried the book of tea.

Everything was hung in the wardrobe, which even had a full length door mirror. Her clothes, her childhood swimsuit, and her childhood dancing uniform. She left one wardrobe door slightly open. All of her shoes went in neat sets in front of the wardrobe, her childhood ice skates and dance shoes among them. In a neat row on the top edge of her new desk was all of her childhood science art projects and experiments. The framed photograph of her with her three childhood best friends was again set on the bedside table, alongside various hair scrunchies and her glasses at nighttime.

Then came the walls. She filled the walls with calligraphic pieces she had made as a younger person and scientific phenomena posters. But above her headboard was what she thought of as The Great Collage. Every fun and happy photograph she had, all hobby triumphs, all friends, all fun times - every fun and happy photograph she owned, none of them involving the Dursleys, was tacked in a great collage above her bedroom’s headboard.

A handmade checkered quilt, a rare birthday gift from a friend, was spread across Dahlia’s bed. There, she thought, happy. Her new room was finished.

Suddenly, Aunt Petunia came in. Dahlia gasped and whirled around. They stared at each other from across the great, gaping distance. Dahlia wasn’t sure they would ever recover from this, but more confusingly, she still didn’t know _what_ they would never recover from. So much suddenly seemed left unsaid for too long.

Coldly, Aunt Petunia walked over and handed her the framed, formal dinner party photo of all four of them together. The only family picture with her in it.

“I don’t want to look at this anymore,” she said. “You can have it.”

Hurt, again swallowing back tears, Dahlia slowly took the shiny black-framed photograph. “... Am I not allowed at dinner parties anymore?” she asked tentatively.

“I don’t know,” said Aunt Petunia in a frigid voice. “I’ll have to think about it.” She turned and left without another glance or a word.

Sadly, her eyes stinging just a little, Dahlia slowly went over to a tiny dark wood end table in a far corner of the bedroom. It was just big enough to hold the full photograph. She set the photograph on top of the end table - left it, and never looked at it again.

Her one reminder that they had once been anything like a coherent family. Her one reminder of what her childhood family had looked like.

-

Next morning at breakfast, Dudley and Dahlia chattered forcefully and unusually happily, trying to act normally. It didn’t fully work. A silent Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon kept looking at each other darkly.

When the mail arrived, Uncle Vernon, who seemed to be trying to be nice to Dahlia, made Dudley go and get it. They heard him banging things with his Smelting stick all the way down the hall. Dahlia didn’t expect Dudley to even think of being subtle or tricky, and he didn’t. Instead he shouted, “There’s another one! ‘Miss D. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive -’”

With a strangled cry, looking quite harassed, Uncle Vernon leapt from his seat and ran out of the dining room. Aunt Petunia and Dahlia sat there, silent and exasperated, as they heard Uncle Vernon and Dudley wrestling each other out in the hall for control of the letter. Dudley wanted to read it himself; Uncle Vernon wouldn’t let him.

Finally, the sounds of fighting stopped, and they heard Uncle Vernon wheeze, “Dudley - go - just go somewhere else.” He must have won.

Dahlia never saw what happened to the second letter, because she never saw the second letter at all. Uncle Vernon came stalking into the dining room empty-handed, he gave her a dark glare, and that was that.

-

The next morning, Uncle Vernon was found to have slept next to the foot of the front door in a sleeping bag, camping out as if waiting for some form of attack. Three letters arrived in his lap addressed in green ink. With a frustrated, infuriated expression, he methodically tore all the letters into little, tiny pieces right there in the sleeping bag with his hair a mess and his eyes red.

Uncle Vernon didn’t go to work that day. He stayed at home and nailed up the mail slot. 

“See,” he explained to Aunt Petunia through a mouthful of nails, “if they can’t _deliver_ then they’ll just give up.”

“I’m not sure that’ll work, Vernon,” even Aunt Petunia had to say frankly.

But God forbid Uncle Vernon listen to the reason of his wife. “Oh, these people’s minds work in strange ways, Petunia, they’re not like you and me,” he said, trying to knock in a nail with the piece of fruitcake Aunt Petunia had just brought him.

-

On Friday, no less than twelve letters arrived for Dahlia. As they couldn’t go through the mail slot they had been pushed under the door, slotted through the sides, and a few even forced through the window in the downstairs bathroom.

Uncle Vernon stayed at home again. After burning all the letters, he got out a hammer and nails and boarded up the cracks around the front and back doors so no one could get out. He hummed “Tiptoe Through the Tulips” as he worked and jumped at small noises.

It was obvious he was becoming increasingly unhinged, and this was not what you’d call comforting.

-

On Saturday, things began to get out of hand. Twenty-four letters to Dahlia found their way into the house, rolled up and hidden inside each of the two dozen eggs that their very confused milkman had handed Aunt Petunia through the living room window. While Uncle Vernon made furious telephone calls to the post office and the dairy, trying to find someone to complain to, Aunt Petunia shredded the letters in her food processor.

“Who on earth wants to talk to _you_ this badly?” Dudley asked Dahlia, both amazed and baffled.

“Thanks, Dudley,” said Dahlia, deadpan.

-

On Sunday morning, Uncle Vernon sat down at the breakfast table looking tired and rather ill, but happy.

“No post on Sundays,” he reminded them cheerfully as he spread marmalade on his newspapers, “no damn letters today -”

Something came whizzing down the kitchen chimney as he spoke and caught him sharply in the back of the head. Next moment, thirty or forty letters came pelting out of the fireplace like bullets. The Dursleys shrieked and ducked, while Dahlia snatched one nearest her and tried to stuff it in her pocket for later, curious by now herself -

“Vernon, she has one!” Aunt Petunia shrieked spitefully, her beady eyes never failing her, but Uncle Vernon was observant himself and he’d already noticed it.

Dahlia ran as Uncle Vernon bellowed and charged at her, grabbed her around the waist, and painfully ripped the letter from her pocket and then her grasp even as she struggled. He threw the letter away from them and while he had Dahlia around the waist, he threw her bodily out into the hall on the floor. When Aunt Petunia and Dudley had run out with their arms over their faces, Uncle Vernon slammed the door shut. They could hear the letters still streaming into the room, bouncing off the walls and floor.

“That does it,” said Uncle Vernon, trying to speak calmly but taking deep breaths and pulling great tufts out of his mustache at the same time. “I want you all back here in five minutes ready to leave. We’re going away. Just pack some clothes. No arguments!”

He looked so dangerous with half his mustache missing that no one dared argue. Ten minutes later they had wrenched their way through the boarded-up doors and were in the car speeding toward the highway. Uncle Vernon’s unhinged madness was only matched by Aunt Petunia’s frigid, icy, furious determination as she sat straight-backed in the passenger’s seat. Dudley was sniffling in the back seat next to Dahlia; his father had hit him round the head for holding them up while he tried to pack his television, VCR, and computer in his sports bag. What was more, for once Aunt Petunia had not looked worried about Dudley or even defended him.

What was it about these letters and their meaning that brought out the worst in both her aunt _and_ her uncle?

They drove. And they drove. Neither child dared ask where they were going. Every now and then Uncle Vernon would take a sharp turn and drive in the opposite direction for a while.

“Shake ‘em off… shake ‘em off,” he would mutter whenever he did this.

They didn’t stop to eat or drink all day. Dahlia kept silent but by nightfall Dudley was howling. He’d never had such a bad day in his life - Dahlia was handling it better because she’d had many worse days when she was very young. But Dudley was hungry, he’d missed five television programs he’d wanted to see, and he’d never gone so long without blowing up an alien on his computer. None of these things had ever happened separately to him before, let alone together.

Dahlia reached out and squeezed his hand comfortingly, still looking carefully straight ahead. Dudley looked over at her and sniffled, becoming somewhat quieter. Inside, Dahlia quite frankly was worried.

Uncle Vernon stopped at last outside a gloomy-looking hotel on the outskirts of a big city. Dudley and Dahlia shared a room with twin beds and damp, musty sheets. Dudley snored but Dahlia stayed awake, sitting on the windowsill, staring down at the lights of passing cars and wondering…

-

She did finally get to sleep, and when she woke up the next morning Dudley informed her that she talked in her sleep. “Don’t worry,” he said, “it’s more endearing than it is annoying. You just sort of murmur words to yourself and you make these hissing noises. It’s kind of weird, actually.”

They all ate stale cornflakes and cold tinned tomatoes on toast for breakfast in the hotel restaurant. Even at her worst and even at ten, Dahlia could probably have done better herself. They had just finished eating when the owner of the hotel came over to their table.

“Scuse me, but is one of you Miss D. Potter? Only I got about a hundred of these at the front desk.”

She held up a letter so they could read the green ink address:

_Miss D. Potter_

_Room 17_

_Railview Hotel_

_Cokeworth_

Uncle Vernon looked over sharply at Dahlia, as if wondering whether she’d make another grab for a letter. Dahlia looked at him expressionlessly - and returned to her food. Once more, there was no point.

“I’ll take them,” said Uncle Vernon, standing up and following the woman from the dining room.

-

Uncle Vernon once more never spoke, and neither did a deadly, grimly serious Aunt Petunia. Exactly what he was looking for, neither child knew. He drove them into the middle of a forest, got out, looked around, shook his head, got back in the car, and off they went again. The same thing happened in the middle of a plowed field, halfway across a suspension bridge, and at the top of a multi-level parking garage.

“My parents have gone mad, haven’t they?” Dudley asked Dahlia dully late that afternoon. Uncle Vernon had parked at the coast. He and Aunt Petunia had gotten out, locked both children inside the car, and disappeared.

“Probably,” Dahlia admitted.

It started to rain. Great drops beat on the roof of the car. Dudley sniveled.

“It’s Monday,” he said. “The Great Humberto’s on tonight. I don’t suppose that matters anymore, as we’re two children who have been abandoned inside a locked car.”

Monday. This reminded Dahlia of something. If it _was_ Monday - and you could usually count on Dudley to know the days of the week, because of television - then tomorrow, Tuesday, 31 July, would be Dahlia’s eleventh birthday. Assuming she lived to see it. Granted, it might well be the worst birthday she’d had in a very long time, abandoned at the coast with her insane family and no friends. Still, you weren’t eleven every day.

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were back with dark smiles. Uncle Vernon was carrying a long, thin package and neither child seemed to feel brave enough to ask what they had bought.

“Found the perfect place!” said Uncle Vernon. “Come on! Everyone out!”

It was very cold outside the car. Uncle Vernon was pointing at what looked like a large rock way out at sea. Perched on top of the rock was the most miserable little shack you could imagine. It didn’t look like it had any modern conveniences at all, actually, let alone television for The Great Humberto.

“Storm forecast for tonight!” said Uncle Vernon gleefully, clapping his hands together. Aunt Petunia wasn’t gleeful or mad, but she didn’t look protesting or uncertain either. She remained silent. “And this gentleman’s kindly agreed to lend us his boat!”

A toothless old man came ambling up to them, pointing, with a rather wicked grin, at an old rowboat bobbing in the iron-grey water below them.

“I’ve already got us some rations,” said Uncle Vernon, “so all aboard!”

It was freezing in the boat. Icy sea spray and rain crept down their necks and a chilly wind whipped their faces. After what seemed like hours they reached the rock, where Uncle Vernon, slipping and sliding, led the way to the broken-down house. 

The inside was horrible; it smelled strongly of seaweed, the wind whistled through the gaps in the wooden walls, and the fireplace was damp and empty. There were only two rooms.

Uncle Vernon’s rations turned out to be a bag of crisps each and four bananas. He tried to start a fire but the empty crisp bags just smoked and shriveled up.

“Could do with some of those letters now, eh?” he said cheerfully. 

He was in a very good mood. Obviously he thought nobody stood a chance of reaching them here in a storm to deliver mail. Dahlia privately agreed, though for the hundredth time she wondered why this was so important. What exactly was in those letters?

As night fell, the promised storm blew up around them. Spray from the high waves splattered the walls of the hut and a fierce wind rattled the filthy windows. Aunt Petunia found a few moldy blankets in the second room and made up a bed for Dudley on the moth eaten sofa. “You don’t get a bed,” she sneered at Dahlia, almost snarling, vindictive to the last. She and Uncle Vernon went off to the lumpy bed next door and Dahlia was left to find the softest bit of floor she could without even the benefit of one of Dudley’s many blankets.

Dudley either didn’t think of sharing or was too afraid of his parents to try.

The storm raged more and more ferociously as the night went on. Dahlia couldn’t sleep. She shivered and turned over, trying to get comfortable, freezing and hungry and scared and confused. Dudley’s snores this time were drowned by the low rolls of thunder that started near midnight. The lighted dial of Dudley’s watch, which was dangling over the edge of the sofa on his even thicker wrist, told Dahlia she’d be eleven in ten minutes’ time. She lay and watched her birthday tick nearer, wondering about the Dursleys and about the mysterious letter writer, but mostly just thinking that she would lie here quietly and become eleven and nobody would notice.

Five minutes to go. Dahlia heard something creak outside. She hoped the roof wasn’t going to fall in, although she might be warmer if it did. Four minutes to go. Maybe the house in Privet Drive would be so full of letters when she got back that she’d be able to steal one somehow. Maybe the Dursleys wouldn’t be quite so horrible for her birthday, maybe they’d remember, maybe Dudley at least would be nicer to her.

Three minutes to go. Was that the sea, slapping hard on the rock like that? And (two minutes to go) what was that funny crunching noise? Was the rock crumbling into the sea?

One minute to go and she’d be eleven. Thirty seconds… twenty… ten… nine… three… two… one…

BOOM.

The whole shack shivered and Dahlia sat bolt upright, staring at the door. Someone was outside, knocking to come in.


	4. The Keeper of the Keys

Chapter Four: The Keeper of the Keys

BOOM. They knocked again. Dudley jerked awake.

“Where’s the cannon?” he muttered, sitting upright, dazed and sleepy-eyed.

There was a crash behind them and Uncle Vernon came skidding into the room, Aunt Petunia half hiding behind him. Uncle Vernon was holding a rifle in his hands. Now Dahlia knew what had been in the long, thin package her aunt and uncle had brought with them.

“Who’s there?” Uncle Vernon shouted, Aunt Petunia looking genuinely frightened from over his shoulder. “I warn you - I’m armed!”

There was a pause. Then -

SMASH!

The door was hit with such force that it swung clean off its hinges and with a deafening crash landed flat on the floor.

A giant of a man was standing in the doorway. He wore a leather jacket and boots. His face was almost completely hidden by a long, shaggy mane of hair and wild, tangled beard, but you could make out his eyes, glinting like black beetles under all the hair.

The giant squeezed his way into the hut, stooping so that his head just brushed the ceiling. He bent down, picked up the door, and fitted it easily back into its frame. The noise of the storm outside dropped a little. He turned to look at them all, speaking in a slanging West Country accent.

“Couldn’t make us a cup of tea, could you?” he asked with perfect casualness, ignoring Uncle Vernon’s rifle. “It’s not been an easy journey…”

He strode over to the sofa where Dudley sat frozen with fear.

“Budge up, you great lump,” said the stranger.

Dudley slowly moved up off the sofa - and then even more slowly, defensively, in front of Dahlia. “What - what are you going to do with her?” he asked in a shaking, clearly terrified voice. “She - she’s my sister. You can’t hurt her!”

The giant’s expression seemed to soften. “Don’t you worry,” he said gruffly. “I’m not gonna hurt her. I’m actually gonna try to help her, if I can.”

“Duddy!” Aunt Petunia hissed. “Get away from that man and over here!” Dahlia, it seemed, could in the end fend for herself.

Dudley slowly looked between his mother and his cousin. Dahlia gave him a minute nod. It was okay, she tried to say without saying it. He could leave.

Dudley slowly left Dahlia and walked away to his mother and father. His mother pulled him behind her, even as she herself was crouched, terrified, behind Uncle Vernon.

“So - here’s Dahlia!” said the giant.

Dahlia looked up into the fierce, wild, shadowy face of a man who said he wanted to help her. She saw that the beetle eyes were crinkled in a smile, the second gentle look she had seen from him.

“Last time I saw you, you was only a baby,” said the giant. “You look a lot like your dad, but you’ve got your mum’s eyes.”

“I look like a man?” said Dahlia skeptically, deadpan and a little downcast at this.

“Well, no, I didn’t mean that!” said the giant, backpedaling quickly. “It’s just - your face is thin like his. You have his wild black hair, though his wasn’t curly, and his sort of slimmer body type. You have glasses like him, though his were round and wire-rimmed. You’re definitely a Potter. I guess your mum was pretty short, though, like you. Her face was a heart like yours, and you have her smaller nose. Those green eyes, too - they’re all her. She was a redhead. I guess you look like both your parents, come to think of it.”

Dahlia drank in all this information hungrily.

Uncle Vernon was by now choking out funny, panicked rasping noises.

“I demand that you leave at once, sir!” he finally managed. “You are breaking and entering!”

“Ah, shut up, Dursley, you great prune,” said the giant; he reached over the back of the sofa, jerked the gun out of Uncle Vernon’s hands, bent it into a knot as easily as if it had been made of rubber, and threw it into a corner of the room.

Uncle Vernon made another funny noise, like a mouse being trodden on.

“Anyway - Dahlia,” said the giant, turning his back on the Dursleys, “a very happy birthday to you. Got something for you here - I might’ve sat on it at some point, but it’ll taste alright.”

From an inside pocket of his black overcoat, he pulled a slightly squashed box. Dahlia opened it with trembling fingers. Inside was a large, sticky chocolate cake with _Happy Birthday Dahlia_ written on it in green icing.

Dahlia had baked plenty of things for other people but, imperfect display or not, no one had ever baked something for her before. She’d had birthday gifts, but never a birthday celebration or a birthday cake. She felt a slight lump in her throat.

Dahlia looked up at the giant with her eyes full. “Thank you,” she said. Then, lost, as if she couldn’t help herself, “Who are you?”

The giant chuckled.

“True, I haven’t introduced meself. Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts.”

He held out an enormous hand and shook Dahlia’s whole arm.

“What about that tea, then, eh?” he said, rubbing his hands together. “I’d not say no to something stronger if you’ve got it, mind.”

His eyes fell on the empty grate with the shrivelled crisp bags in it and he snorted. He bent down over the fireplace; they couldn’t see what he was doing but when he drew back a second later there was a roaring fire there. It filled the whole damp hut with flickering light and a freezing cold Dahlia felt weak relief as the warmth washed over her, as though she had just sunk into a hot bath.

The giant sat back down on the sofa, which sagged under his weight, and began taking all sorts of things out of the pockets of his coat: a copper kettle, a squashy package of sausages, a poker, a teapot, several chipped mugs, and a bottle of some amber liquid that he took a swig from before starting to make tea. Soon the hut was full of the sound and smell of sizzling sausage. Nobody said a thing while the giant was working, but to his credit he made the sausage and the tea to perfection, and as he slid the first six fat, juicy, slightly burnt sausages from the poker, Dudley shifted on his feet. Uncle Vernon said sharply, “Don’t touch anything he gives you, Dudley!”

The giant chuckled darkly.

“They’re not for him.”

He passed the hot tea and the warm, juicy sausages to Dahlia, who was so hungry she had never tasted anything so wonderful. But the entire time she was carefully, politely eating and drinking, she still couldn’t take her eyes off the giant. Finally, when she was partway through her slice of birthday cake, as nobody seemed about to explain anything, she said, “I’m sorry, but I still don’t really know who you are.”

The giant took a gulp of tea and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Call me Hagrid,” he said, “everyone does. And like I told you, I’m Keeper of Keys at Hogwarts - you’ll know all about Hogwarts, of course.”

“Er - no, I don’t,” Dahlia admitted shyly.

Hagrid looked shocked.

“I’m sorry,” Dahlia added quickly.

 _“Sorry?”_ barked Hagrid, turning to stare at the Dursleys, who shrank back into the shadows. “It’s them that should be sorry! I knew you weren’t getting your letters, but I never thought you wouldn’t even know about Hogwarts, for crying out loud! Did you never wonder where your parents learned it all?”

“All what?” asked Dahlia.

“ALL WHAT?” Hagrid thundered. “Now wait just one second!”

He had leapt to his feet. In his anger he seemed to fill the whole hut. The Dursleys were cowering against the wall.

“Do you mean to tell me,” he growled at the Dursleys, “that this girl - this girl! - knows nothing about - about ANYTHING?”

Dahlia thought this was going a bit far. She had been to school, after all, and her marks were pretty good.

“I know _some_ things,” she said. “I can do maths, science -”

But Hagrid simply waved his hand and said, “About _our_ world, I mean. _Your_ world. _My_ world. _Your parents’ world.”_

“What world?”

Hagrid looked as if he was about to explode.

“DURSLEY!” he boomed.

Uncle Vernon, who had gone very pale, whispered something that sounded like, “Mimblewimble.” Dudley looked as confused as Dahlia. Hagrid stared wildly at Dahlia.

“But you must know about your mum and dad,” he said. “I mean, they’re _famous._ You’re _famous.”_

“What? My… my mum and dad weren’t famous, were they?”

“You don’t know… you don’t know…” Hagrid ran his fingers through his hair, fixing Dahlia with a bewildered stare.

“You don’t know what you _are?”_ he said finally.

Uncle Vernon suddenly found his voice.

“Stop!” he commanded. “Stop right there, sir! I forbid you to tell the girl anything!”

Aunt Petunia gave a shriek of horror. “Don’t tell her a thing!” she screamed, her face twisted with anger.

But braver people than Vernon and Petunia Dursley would have quailed under the furious look Hagrid now gave them; when Hagrid spoke, his every syllable trembled with rage.

“You never told her? Never told her what was in the letter Dumbledore left for her? I was there! I saw Dumbledore leave it, Dursley! And you’ve kept it from her all these years?”

“What did they keep from me?” Dahlia asked intently.

“STOP! I FORBID YOU!” yelled Uncle Vernon in panic.

Aunt Petunia sucked in a sharp breath.

“Ah, go boil your heads, both of you,” said Hagrid. “Dahlia - you’re a witch.”

This did not have quite the effect Hagrid had intended.

“Well there’s no need to insult me,” said Dahlia stiffly. “Just because I don’t understand.”

“They - they use witch as an insult here -? Oh, never mind, they’re Muggles, of _course_ they use witch as an insult,” said Hagrid, exasperated, a sentence that Dahlia entirely did not understand. “No, Dahlia, I’m talking about an actual witch. You can do magic. Like everyone else from our hidden world. 

“You’re a witch.”

There was silence inside the hut as the full import of this finally hit Dahlia. Only the sea and the whistling wind could be heard.

“I’m - I’m a _what?”_ Dahlia gasped. Got it on the second take.

“A witch, of course,” said Hagrid, sitting back down on the sofa, which groaned and sank even lower, “and a thumping good one, I’d say, once you’ve been trained up a bit. With a mum and dad like yours, what else would you be? And I reckon it’s about time you read your letter.”

Dahlia stretched out her hand at last to take the yellowish envelope, addressed in emerald green to Miss D. Potter, The Floor, Hut-on-the-Rock, The Sea. She pulled out the letter and read:

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore_

_(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

_Dear Miss Potter,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

_Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall_

_Deputy Headmistress_

Questions exploded inside Dahlia’s head like fireworks and she couldn’t decide which to ask first. After a few minutes she stammered, “What does it mean they await my owl? The - the deadline started at midnight.”

“Galloping Gorgons, that reminds me,” said Hagrid, clapping a hand to his forehead with enough force to knock over a carthorse, and from yet another pocket he pulled an owl - a real, live, rather ruffled looking owl - a long quill, and a roll of parchment. With his tongue between his teeth he scribbled a note that Dahlia could read upside down:

_Dear Professor Dumbledore,_

_Given Dahlia her letter. She accepts, of course._

_Taking her to buy her things tomorrow._

_Weather’s horrible. Hope you’re well._

_Hagrid_

Hagrid rolled up the note, gave it to the owl, which clamped it in its beak, went to the door, and threw the owl out into the storm. Then he came back and sat down as though this was as normal as talking on the telephone.

Dahlia realized she was staring and tried not to, but it was very hard.

“Where was I?” said Hagrid, but at that moment Uncle Vernon, still ashen-faced but looking very angry, move into the firelight.

“She’s not going,” he said.

Hagrid grunted.

“I’d like to see a great Muggle like you stop her,” he said.

“A what?” said Dahlia, interested.

“A Muggle,” said Hagrid, “it’s what we call nonmagic folk from the other world like them. And it’s your bad luck you grew up in a family of the biggest Muggles I ever laid eyes on. Only your cousin seems tolerable.”

“We swore when we took her in we’d put a stop to that rubbish,” said Uncle Vernon, “swore we’d stamp it out of her! Witch indeed! Do you know what kind of woman becomes a witch? A wild woman, that’s who!”

“And what if I am a wild woman?!” Dahlia suddenly shrieked, standing to her feet. “What are _you_ going to do about it?! I can’t believe you _knew!_ You _knew_ I’m a - a witch? And you never told me!”

“Knew!” shrieked Aunt Petunia suddenly, coming into the firelight. _“Knew!_ Of course we knew! How could you not be, my dratted sister being what she was? Oh, she got a letter just like that, and she claimed not to know anymore than you did, and she disappeared off to that - that _school_ \- and came home every vacation with her pockets full of frogspawn, turning teacups into rats! I was the only one who saw her for what she was - a freak! But for my mother and father, oh no, it was Lily this and Lily that, they were proud of having a witch in the family!”

She stopped to draw a deep breath and then went ranting on. It seemed she had been wanting to say all this for years. And as she talked, it became clear - Petunia had been jealous of her sister Lily. She had watched her baby sister go on to become a magical witch while she herself had to stay a Muggle. She envied her sister, was bitter. And when Dahlia got her letter, proof that her magic had not been successfully stamped out, all those feelings had come back.

Because she was going to watch the girl she had raised go on to become a witch. Just as she had watched the girl she was raised alongside do the exact same thing.

“Then she met that Potter at school, and he was from a whole line, whole centuries of freaks! And they left and got married right out of the school and they had _you,_ at _nineteen,_ and of course I knew you’d be just the same, just as strange, just as - as - _abnormal_ \- and then, if you please, she went and got herself blown up, and we got landed with you!

“And for a while I fooled myself into thinking you were _different!”_ she said spitefully. “But of course inevitably you turned out just the same as your mother. You spat on the hand I offered you, and you spited me by becoming magic.”

“... I can’t control the fact that I was born with magic,” Dahlia growled out, fists and teeth clenched. “And - blown up? You told me they died in a car crash!” She flung the accusation back.

“CAR CRASH!” Hagrid roared, jumping up so angrily that the Dursleys scuttled back to their corner like the vile little insects they were. “How could a car crash kill Lily and James Potter?”

“Why is that so impossible?” Dahlia asked cautiously. “What was the flaw in the story?”

“Well for one thing,” said Hagrid with heavy sarcasm “wizards and witches don’t have cars. Electricity doesn’t work around strong magic unless specially configured by technomages. So in our world, we’ve found other ways to replace technology instead, and much of our world seems older than the Muggle one - even when it doesn’t need to be. Take our dress, for example. Robes are our traditional wear, but usually we wear modern Muggles clothes. The only exception is that we often add Victorian era garments - a blend of the old and the new. 

“Wizards don’t have cars. They have other modes of transportation instead.

“And for another thing, a car crash wouldn’t kill a witch or wizard. Our magic acts as a kind of shield, healing us and protecting us from violent injury and death. Lily and James Potter, both as powerful as they come, would not have been killed by a car crash.

“It’s an outrage,” he said fiercely, “a scandal. Dahlia Potter not knowing her own story when every kid in our world knows her name!”

“But why? What happened?” Dahlia asked urgently. 

The anger faded from Hagrid’s face. He looked suddenly anxious.

“I never expected this,” he said, in a low, worried voice. “I had no idea, when Dumbledore told me there might be trouble getting hold of you, how much you didn’t know. Ah, Dahlia, I don’t know if I’m the right person to tell you - but someone’s got to. You can’t go off to Hogwarts not knowing.”

He threw a dirty look at the Dursleys.

“Well, it’s best you know as much as I can tell you - mind, I can’t tell you everything, it’s a great mystery, parts of it…”

He sat down, stared into the fire for a few seconds, and then said, “It begins, I suppose, with - with a person called - but it’s incredible you don’t know his name, everyone in our world knows -”

“Who?”

“Well - I don’t like saying the name if I can help it. No one does.”

“Why not?”

“Gulping gargoyles, Dahlia, people are still scared. Blimey, this is difficult. See, there was this wizard who went… bad. As bad as you could go. Worse. Worse than worse. His name was…”

Hagrid gulped, but no words came out.

“Could you write it down?” Dahlia suggested.

“Nah - can’t spell it. Alright - _Voldemort.”_ Hagrid shuddered. “Don’t make me say it again. Anyway, this - this wizard, about twenty years ago now, started looking for followers. Got them, too - some were afraid, some just wanted a bit of his power, ‘cause he was getting himself power, alright. Dark days, Dahlia. Didn’t know who to trust, didn’t dare get friendly with strange wizards or witches… terrible things happened. He was taking over. ‘Course, some stood up to him - and he killed them. Horribly. One of the only safe places left was Hogwarts. Reckon Dumbledore’s the only one You-Know-Who was ever afraid of. Didn’t dare try taking the school, not just then, anyway.

“Now, your mum and dad were as good a witch and wizard as I ever knew - Head Boy and Girl at Hogwarts in their day! Suppose the mystery is why You-Know-Who never tried to get them on his side before… probably knew they were too close to Dumbledore to want anything to do with the Dark Side.

“Maybe he thought he could persuade them… maybe he just wanted them out of the way. All anyone knows is, he turned up in the village where you was all living, in Godric’s Hollow, on Halloween ten years ago.”

“Is that an all wizard village?” Dahlia asked.

“Good question, but nah. Hogwarts is the only place in the country with an attached all wizard village. Most wizards and witches hide their houses in Muggle places, and that’s what your parents did. Our world exists in a series of hidden pockets all over the place, all connected with each other. And you all was living in a cottage in this village. You was just a year old. He came to your house and - and -”

Hagrid suddenly pulled out a very dirty, rather disgusting spotted handkerchief and blew his nose with a sound like a foghorn.

“Sorry,” he said. “But it’s that sad - knew your mum and dad, and nicer people you couldn’t find.”

“How did you know them?” Dahlia asked searchingly.

“Oh, I was already groundskeeper at Hogwarts when they came along. Then later they fought for the Light Side in the war - in a sort of special fighting organization. Dumbledore ran it, so I knew them then, too. They were parents to be proud of, for certain.

“And You-Know-Who killed them. And then - and this is the real mystery of the thing - he tried to kill you, too. A little baby girl. Wanted to make a clean job of it, I suppose, or maybe he just liked killing by then. But he couldn’t do it.”

“Couldn’t do it?” Dahlia asked, her nose wrinkling a little in confusion.

“Yeah. At first, nobody else could believe it either. Not only does he attack a little baby girl, the attack fails? At first we thought he couldn’t do it out of some weird moral reason. There were bizarre rumors swirling around that somehow you would grow to seduce him, talk of an arranged marriage - horrible, nasty stuff. You know how people get. Nobody wanted to believe some little girl could deflect a Killing Curse that no one else could deflect.

“But that’s exactly what happened. From what we can tell, the curse rebounded off of you, and straight at him. You were supposed to die, and you didn’t. Never wondered how you got that mark on your forehead? That was no ordinary cut. That’s what you get when a powerful, evil curse touches you - it took care of your mum and dad, and your house, even - but it didn’t work on you, and that’s why you’re famous, Dahlia. Both sides have now claimed you’re their next big heroine.”

“... Me?” said Dahlia disbelievingly.

“You’d have to understand what it was like back then, Dahlia. No one ever lived after he decided to kill them - the Killing Curse was in fact supposed to be unblockable, the most horrible Unforgivable Curse there is. And he was an expert at it, the best. No one ever survived him except you. And he’d killed some of the best wizards and witches of the age - the McKinnons, the Bones, the Prewetts - and you was only a baby, and you lived.”

Something very painful was going on in Dahlia’s mind. As Hagrid’s story came to a close, she saw again the blinding flash of green light, more clearly than she had ever remembered it before - and she remembered something else, for the first time in her life: a high, cold, cruel laugh, almost hysterical and entirely chilling.

“... Hagrid,” she said, swallowing, “is that Unforgivable Curse - the Killing Curse - green?”

“Yeah, it’s a jet of green light that hits the person - why?” He frowned.

“He… he was laughing,” said Dahlia in a trembling voice, her hands shaking, “he was laughing as he killed us.”

Underneath all the hair, Hagrid paled. Then he rallied. “Well you remember that,” he said fiercely.

“Why?” Dahlia stared up at him.

“I want you to remember that he was laughing as he killed your parents. Because that’s the only kind of memory that can protect against the lure of a power like the Dark Side. You remember your parents, and what they died fighting for - for life, for the Light and for good magic.”

“... Okay.” Dahlia nodded seriously.

“Anyway… took you from the ruined house myself, on Dumbledore’s orders… brought you to this lot.”

“Why did Dumbledore get to decide?” said Dahlia curiously.

“Well, he led the war. Headmaster of the training boarding school every witch and wizard passes through. And you saw the letter - all the councils he’s on. Dumbledore’s what they call a political heavyweight. And deciding to see the best in people, he thought it might be best if you grew up with Muggles. If you weren’t treated as a special child celebrity. He wanted you to have a normal childhood and not grow up with a big head.”

“Well, he got the big head part right.” Dahlia smiled and Hagrid chuckled in return.

“So I brought you here, on a flying motorbike,” Hagrid added cheerfully. “McGonagall, Dumbledore, and me all personally saw you to the house.”

“I’ve dreamt about a flying motorbike,” said Dahlia airily in realization.

“Well.” Hagrid smiled. “Must’ve liked the ride.”

“Load of old tosh,” said Uncle Vernon. Dahlia jumped; she had almost forgotten the Dursleys were there. Uncle Vernon certainly seemed to have got back his courage. He was glaring at Hagrid and his fists were clenched.

“Now, you listen here, girl,” he snarled, “I accept there’s something strange about you, probably nothing a good beating wouldn’t have cured - and as for all this about your parents, well, they were weirdos, no denying it, and the world’s better off without them in my opinion -”

“Shut up!” Dahlia shouted, standing, but Uncle Vernon sneered and barreled on mercilessly.

“Asked for all they got, getting mixed up with these wizarding types - just what I expected, always knew they’d come to a sticky end -”

But at that moment, Hagrid leapt from the sofa and drew a battered pink umbrella from inside his coat. Pointing this at Uncle Vernon like a sword, he said, “I’m warning you, Dursley - I’m warning you - one more word…”

In danger of being speared on the end of an umbrella by a bearded giant, Uncle Vernon’s courage failed again; he flattened himself against the wall and fell silent.

“That’s better,” said Hagrid, breathing heavily and sitting back down on the sofa, which this time sagged right down to the floor. 

Dahlia, meanwhile, sat slowly back down as well. She still had questions to ask, hundreds of them.

“But what happened to Vol-, sorry - I mean, You-Know-Who? Was a body found where the curse rebounded?”

“Another good question, Dahlia. You’re on a roll. No, there was no body found. He disappeared. Vanished. Same night he tried to kill you. Makes you even more famous. That’s the biggest mystery, see… he was getting more and more powerful - why’d he go?

“Some say he died. Codswallop, in my opinion. Don’t know if he had enough human left in him to die.”

“No human?” Dahlia tilted her head.

“He’d been experimenting on himself. Wanted immortality,” said Hagrid flatly. “In other words, he was insane. Some say he’s still out there, biding his time, like, but I don’t believe it. People who was on his side came back to ours. Some of them came out of kind of trances. Don’t reckon they could’ve done if he was coming back.

“Most of us reckon he’s still out there somewhere but lost his powers. Too weak to carry on. ‘Cause something about you finished him, Dahlia. There was something going on that night that he hadn’t counted on - _I_ don’t know what it was, no one does - but something about one lone little girl stumped him, alright.”

Hagrid looked at Dahlia with warmth and respect and admiration blazing in his eyes, but Dahlia, instead of feeling pleased and proud, felt quite sure there had been a horrible mistake. A witch? Her? How could she possibly be? She’d spent her life being bullied and controlled by Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, molded to their every whim; if she really was a witch, why hadn’t they both been turned into warty toads every time they’d tried to lock her in her cupboard? She was supposed to have defeated the greatest sorcerer in the world. All her life Dudley had had to fight her bullies for her, because she was so small - better naturally at speed and running than at fighting. He hadn’t even trusted her to be on her own at Stonewall High.

“Hagrid,” she said quietly, “I think you’ve made a mistake. I don’t think I can be a witch.”

To her surprise, Hagrid chuckled.

“Not a witch, eh? Never made things happen when you was scared or angry?”

Dahlia looked into the fire. Now she came to think about it… every odd thing that had ever made her aunt and uncle furious with her had happened when she, Dahlia, had been upset or angry… nasty teachers and female bullies humiliated… horrible fashion statements magically changed… speaking to a snake when she, Dahlia, had felt most sympathetic to it, indignant for its plight, more like her own than even she could ever have imagined… 

“And… it doesn’t matter that I’m small?” she asked, staring into the fire. “Or a girl?”

“None of it matters with magic,” said Hagrid, a smile in his voice. “Not even your fame matters, really. Your power is its own. You decide how powerful you are, by how hard you study and how much you train. But I’d guess you’ve already gotten a pretty good head start.”

Dahlia finally looked back at Hagrid, smiling, and saw that Hagrid was positively beaming at her.

“See?” said Hagrid. “Dahlia Potter, not a witch - you wait, you’ll be right famous at Hogwarts.”

But Uncle Vernon wasn’t going to give in without a fight.

“Haven’t I told you she’s not going?” he hissed. “She’s going to Stonewall High and she’ll be grateful for it. I’ve read those books and she needs all sorts of rubbish - spell books and wands and -”

"I am going," said Dahlia icily. "And you can't stop me."

“Quite right! If she wants to go, a great Muggle like you won’t stop her,” growled Hagrid. “Stop Lily and James Potter’s daughter going to Hogwarts! You’re mad. Her name’s been down ever since she was born. She’s off to the finest school of witchcraft and wizardry in the world, a place she’ll spend most of her time being far away from you. Seven years there and she won’t know herself. She’ll be with youngsters of her own sort, for a change, and she’ll be under the greatest headmaster Hogwarts ever had, Albus Dumbled -”

“I AM NOT PAYING FOR SOME CRACKPOT OLD FOOL TO TEACH HER MAGIC TRICKS!” yelled Uncle Vernon.

But he had finally gone too far. Hagrid seized his umbrella and whirled it over his head. “NEVER -” he thundered, “- INSULT - ALBUS - DUMBLEDORE - IN - FRONT - OF - ME!”

He brought the umbrella swishing down through the air to point at Uncle Vernon - there was a flash of violet light, a sound like a firecracker, a sharp squeal, and the next second, Uncle Vernon was dancing ridiculously on the spot with his hands clapped over his bottom, howling in pain. When he turned his back on them, Dahlia saw a curly pig’s tail poking through a hole in the massive bottom of his high-end slacks.

Aunt Petunia screamed. She pulled Dudley and Uncle Vernon into the other room, cast one terrified and furious look at Hagrid and Dahlia, and slammed the door behind them.

It was fitting, Dahlia was supposed. Uncle Vernon was the only one horrible without any true, understandable reason to be.

Hagrid looked down at his umbrella and stroked his beard.

“Shouldn’t have lost me temper,” he said ruefully, “but it didn’t work anyway. Meant to turn him into a pig, but I suppose he was so much like a pig anyway there wasn’t much left to do.”

He cast a sideways look at Dahlia under his bushy eyebrows.

“Be grateful if you didn’t mention that to anyone at Hogwarts,” he said. “I’m - er - not supposed to do magic, strictly speaking. I was allowed to do a bit to follow you and get your letters to you and stuff - one of the reasons I was so keen to take on the job -”

“Why aren’t you supposed to do magic?” said Dahlia.

“Oh, well - I was at Hogwarts meself but I - er - got expelled, to tell you the truth. In my third year. They snapped me wand in half and everything. But Dumbledore let me stay on as gamekeeper. Great man, Dumbledore.”

“Why were you expelled?” Dahlia asked delicately, wondering if this was a touchy subject.

And it was.

“It’s getting late and we’ve got lots to do tomorrow,” said Hagrid loudly. “Gotta get up to London, get all your books and that.”

“In a pocket?” said Dahlia, politely changing the subject.

“That’s right,” said Hagrid.

“Hagrid… I have one more question…” It had occurred to her. Hagrid turned back to her curiously and here Dahlia winced. “Might there possibly be a trust fund for impoverished students? I haven’t got any money - and you heard Uncle Vernon… he won’t pay for me to go and learn magic.”

“Don’t worry about that,” said Hagrid. “Do you think your parents didn’t leave you anything?”

“But if their house was destroyed…”

“They didn’t keep their gold in the house, Dahlia! Nah, first stop for us is Gringotts. Wizards’ bank.”

“Wizards and witches have _banks?”_

“Just the one -”

“One period or one kind anywhere?”

“One kind anywhere,” Hagrid confirmed. “But there's one in London where we're going. Gringotts. Run by goblins.”

_“... Goblins?”_

“Yeah - so you’d be mad to try and rob it, I’ll tell you that. Never mess with goblins, Dahlia. Gringotts is the safest place in the world for anything you want to keep safe - except maybe Hogwarts. As a matter of fact, I gotta visit Gringotts anyway. For Dumbledore. Hogwarts business.” Hagrid drew himself up proudly. “He usually gets me to do important stuff for him - fetching you - getting things from Gringotts - knows he can trust me, see.”

“So… all this gold… what did my parents do? Where did it come from?” said Dahlia, puzzled.

Hagrid looked back at the door to the other room, then leaned forward and said in a hushed voice, “Don’t tell your aunt and uncle, I’d recommend, but they didn’t have to do anything. There are plenty of wizarding careers in our world, but your parents sure didn’t need them. Your father was quite an heir. His family really have been wizards for centuries. Old blueblood Pureblood big money types. That’s why his marriage to your mother was so unusual.

“You have an ancestor in the twelfth century that invented a bunch of medicinal potions. He was always pottering around in his garden, hence, Potter. You’re rich because you get a cut of money every single time a Pepper-Up Potion - cure for the common cold - or a Skele-Grow Potion - bone and limb regrowth - is bought or made. 

“The Potter vault constantly refills itself, but that’s not for till you come of age at seventeen. Until then, you have a trust fund. It constantly replenishes itself from the Potter vault. Your parents were very vicious in protecting your money, too - if someone who doesn’t belong ever tries to break in, their faces are filled with green toxic, poisonous gas. They die instantly. But the smoke is harmless to those who belong, who mean no harm, see?

“You have two vaults filled with witch and wizard gold. There is a fund, but you don’t need it.” Hagrid chuckled and straightened. “Imagine. A Potter needing money.” He clearly found the whole idea both absurd and rather funny.

Dahlia stood there in stiff, clear shock. She had to move, however, when Hagrid suddenly took off his thick, black coat and threw it at her.

“I’ll take this useless sofa, but you can wrap that around yourself and kip inside it,” he said. “That just makes the most sense. 

“Don’t mind if the coat wriggles a bit. I think I still got a couple of dormice in one of the pockets.”

Dahlia decided there were worse things.


	5. Diagon Alley

Chapter Five: Diagon Alley

Dahlia woke early the next morning. Although she could tell it was daylight, she kept her eyes shut tight.

“It was a dream,” she told herself firmly. “I dreamed a giant called Hagrid came to tell me I was going to a school for witches and I secretly owned a big pile of witch’s gold. When I open my eyes I’ll be at home in my cupboard.”

There was suddenly a loud tapping noise.

 _And there’s Aunt Petunia knocking on the door to wake me up in the morning,_ Dahlia thought, her heart sinking. But she still didn’t open her eyes. It had been such a good dream.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Alright,” Dahlia mumbled, “I’m getting up.”

She sat up and Hagrid’s heavy coat fell off her. The hut was full of sunlight, the storm was over, Hagrid himself was asleep on the collapsed sofa, and there was an owl rapping its claw on the window, a newspaper held in its beak.

Dahlia hurried to her feet, so happy she felt as though a large balloon was swelling inside her. She went straight to the window and jerked it open. The owl swooped in and dropped the newspaper on top of Hagrid, who didn’t wake up. The owl then fluttered onto the floor and began to attack Hagrid’s coat.

“Don’t do that.”

Dahlia tried to wave the owl out of the way, but it snapped its beak fiercely at her and carried on savaging the coat.

“Hagrid!” said Dahlia loudly. “There’s an owl -”

“Pay him,” Hagrid grunted into the sofa.

“What?”

“He wants paying for delivering the paper. Look in the pockets.”

Hagrid’s coat seemed to be made of nothing _but_ pockets - bunches of keys, slug pellets, balls of string, peppermint humbugs, teabags… finally, Dahlia pulled out a handful of strange-looking coins.

“Give him five Knuts,” said Hagrid sleepily.

“Knuts?” 

“The little bronze ones.”

Dahlia counted out five little bronze coins and the owl held out his leg so Dahlia could put the money into a small leather pouch tied to it. Then he flew off through the open window.

Hagrid yawned loudly, sat up, and stretched.

“Best be off, Dahlia, lots to do today, got to get up to London and buy all your stuff for school.”

Dahlia examined the coins brightly, interested. “What are all these coins called?” Hagrid blinked in surprise. “I figure,” she added shyly, smiling, “if I have all this money, I should probably know how to use it.”

“Well, the gold coins are Galleons,” said Hagrid. “Seventeen silver Sickles to a Galleon and twenty nine bronze Knuts to a Sickle. It’s easy enough.

“Now have a sausage, they’re not bad cold - and I wouldn’t say no to a bit of your birthday cake, neither.”

He winked and Dahlia beamed.

They ate their cold sausages and then shamelessly shared a bit of leftover birthday cake. After that, they cleaned themselves up a bit, Hagrid put his coat on, and they stood. Oddly enough, Dahlia had only brought a single change of clothes - she would be walking out of this hut and out of her old life with nothing but what she wore on her back.

“Got everything?” said Hagrid. “Come on, then.”

Dahlia followed Hagrid out onto the rock. The sky was clear now and the sea gleamed in the sunlight. The boat Uncle Vernon had hired was still there, with a lot of water in the bottom after the storm. 

“How did you get here?” Dahlia asked, looking around for another boat.

“Flew,” said Hagrid.

“On the motorbike?” Dahlia asked.

Hagrid chuckled. “Yeah. You’ve got a good memory. But I sent it back toward Hogwarts’ way, so we’ll go back in this here boat. Not supposed to do magic now I’ve got you.”

They settled down in the boat.

“Seems a shame to row, though,” said Hagrid, giving Dahlia another of his sideways looks. “If I was to - er - speed things up a bit, would you mind not mentioning it at Hogwarts?”

“Of course not,” said Dahlia, eager to see more magic. Hagrid pulled out the pink umbrella, tapped it twice on the side of the boat, and they sped off toward land.

“Why would you be mad to try and rob Gringotts?” Dahlia asked.

Hagrid looked up in surprise, bushy black eyebrows lifting. “What?”

“Last night, you said a person would have to be mad to try and rob Gringotts. Why?” Dahlia blinked matter of factly.

“Blimey,” said Hagrid. “Mind like a steel trap… Well. Spells - enchantments.” He unfolded his newspaper as he spoke. “They say there’s dragons guarding the high-security vaults. And then you got to find your way around - Gringotts is hundreds of miles under London, see. Deep under the Underground. You’d die of hunger trying to get out, even if you did manage to get your hands on something.”

Dahlia sat and thought about this while Hagrid read his newspaper, the Daily Prophet. Dahlia had learned from Uncle Vernon that people liked to be left alone while they did this, but it was very difficult, she’d never had so many questions in her life.

“Ministry of Magic messing things up as usual,” Hagrid muttered, turning the page.

“There’s a Ministry of Magic?” Dahlia asked, before she could stop herself.

“‘Course,” said Hagrid. “Who do you think all those councils of Dumbledore’s answer to? They wanted Dumbledore for Minister, of course, but he’d never leave Hogwarts, so old Cornelius Fudge got the job. Bungler if ever there was one. So he pelts Dumbledore with owls every morning, asking for advice.”

“But what does a Ministry of Magic _do?”_

“Well, their main job is to keep it from the Muggles that there’s still witches and wizards up and down the country.”

“Why?”

 _“Why?_ Blimey, Dahlia, everyone would be wanting magic solutions to their problems. Nah, we’re best left alone.”

At this moment they bumped gently into the harbor wall. Hagrid folded up his newspaper, and they clambered up the stone steps onto the street. Dahlia paused and looked back at the boat.

“... Can you send it back?” she asked.

“For your aunt and uncle?” said Hagrid incredulously. “They’ll find _some_ way back to land.”

“No… for Dudley,” she said softly, looking up at him, last night still smarting somewhere deep inside.

Hagrid seemed to understand. He nodded, tapped the boat with the end of his pink umbrella, and it sped off back toward the rock.

Passersby stared a lot at Hagrid as they walked through the little town to the station. Dahlia couldn’t blame them. Not only was Hagrid twice as tall as everyone else, he kept pointing at perfectly ordinary things like parking meters and saying loudly, “See that, Dahlia? Things these Muggles dream up, eh?”

Dahlia finally took his arm and said, “Hagrid, people are staring. Come on, let’s talk about something instead. Did you say… there are _dragons_ at Gringotts?”

“Well, so they say,” said Hagrid. “Crikey, I’d like a dragon.”

“You’d _like_ one?”

“Wanted one ever since I was a kid - here we go.”

They had reached the station. There was a train to London in five minutes’ time. Hagrid, who didn’t understand “Muggle money,” as he called it, gave the bills to Dahlia so she could buy their tickets, which she did as politely as she could, smiling with effort as the ticket holder stared behind her at Hagrid.

People stared more than ever on the train. It was really quite embarrassing. Hagrid took up two seats and sat knitting what looked like a canary-yellow circus tent. 

“Still got your letter, Dahlia?” he asked as he counted stitches.

Dahlia took the parchment envelope out of her pocket.

“Good,” said Hagrid. “There’s a list in there of everything you need.”

Dahlia unfolded a second piece of paper she hadn’t noticed the night before, and read:

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_Uniform_

_First-year students will require:_

_Three sets of plain work robes (black)_

_One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear_

_One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)_

_One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)_

_Please note that all pupils’ clothes should carry name tags._

_Course Books_

_All students should have a copy of each of the following:_

_The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk_

_A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot_

_Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling_

_A Beginners’ Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch_

_One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore_

_Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger_

_Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander_

_The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self Protection by Quentin Trimble_

_Other Equipment_

_1 wand_

_1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)_

_1 set glass or crystal vials_

_1 telescope_

_1 set brass scales_

_Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad._

_PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS._

“Can we buy all this in London?” Dahlia wondered aloud. “I’ve been there and I’ve never seen anything like any of this.”

“Oh, you just have to know where to go,” said Hagrid. “I told you, didn’t I? We hide.”

-

Although Hagrid seemed to know where he was going in getting to London, he was obviously not used to getting there in an ordinary way. He got stuck in the ticket barrier on the Underground, and complained loudly that the seats were too small and the trains too slow. Dahlia followed after him, alternating between her constant stream of apologies with others and her constant pleas with him to be better behaved.

“I don’t know how the Muggles manage without magic,” he said, shaking his head, as they climbed a broken-down escalator that led up to a typical bustling London street lined with shops.

Hagrid was so huge that he parted the crowd easily; all Dahlia had to do was keep close behind him. They passed book shops and music stores, hamburger restaurants and cinemas, but nowhere that looked as if it could sell you a magic wand. This was just an ordinary street full of ordinary people. Could there really be piles of witch’s gold buried miles beneath them? Were there really shops that sold spell books and broomsticks? Might this not all be some huge joke the Dursleys had cooked up? If Dahlia hadn’t known that the Dursleys had no sense of humor, she might have thought so; yet somehow, even though everything Hagrid told told her so far was unbelievable and even though he made a dreadful embarrassing traveling companion, Dahlia couldn’t help trusting him.

“This is it,” said Hagrid, coming to a halt, “the Leaky Cauldron. It’s a famous place.”

It was a tiny, grubby-looking pub. Dahlia’s nose wrinkled in confusion. If Hagrid hadn’t pointed the place out, she wouldn’t have noticed it was there. The people hurrying by didn’t glance at it. Their eyes slid from the big book shop on one side to the record shop on the other as if they couldn’t see the Leaky Cauldron at all. In fact, Dahlia realized that very probably only she and Hagrid could see it - after all, this was a hidden pocket and they had magic. Perhaps that was why it didn’t look like much. Nobody wanted it to be noticed. Before she could mention this, Hagrid had steered her inside.

The inside was very dark and shabby, again unassuming. A few old women were sitting in a corner, drinking tiny glasses of sherry. One of them was smoking a long pipe. A little man in a top hat was talking to the old bartender, who was quite bald and looked like toothless walnut. The low buzz of chatter stopped when they walked in. Everyone seemed to know Hagrid; they waved and smiled at him, and the bartender reached for a glass, saying, “The usual, Hagrid?”

“Can’t, Tom, I’m on Hogwarts business,” said Hagrid, clapping his great hand on Dahlia’s shoulder and making Dahlia’s knees buckle.

“Good Lord,” said the bartender, peering at Dahlia, “is this - can this be -?”

The Leaky Cauldron had suddenly gone completely still and silent.

“Bless my soul,” whispered the old bartender, “Dahlia Potter… what an honor.”

He hurried out from behind the bar, rushed toward Dahlia and seized her hand, tears in his eyes.

“Welcome back, Miss Potter, welcome back.”

Dahlia didn’t know what to say. Everyone was looking at her. The old woman with the pipe was puffing on it without realizing it had gone out. Hagrid was beaming.

Then there was a great scraping of chairs and the next moment, Dahlia found herself shaking hands with everyone in the Leaky Cauldron.

“Doris Crockford, Miss Potter, can’t believe I’m meeting you at last.”

“So proud, Miss Potter, I’m just so proud.”

“Always wanted to shake your hand - I’m all of a flutter.”

“Delighted, Miss Potter, just can’t tell you, Diggle’s the name, Dedalus Diggle.”

“I’ve seen you before!” said Dahlia, as Dedalus Diggle’s top hat fell off in his excitement. “You bowed to me once in a shop.”

“Brilliant girl, she remembers!” cried Dedalus Diggle, looking around at everyone. “Did you hear that? She remembers me!”

Dahlia shook hands again and again. Doris Crockford kept coming back for more.

A pale young man made his way forward, very nervously. One of his eyes was twitching.

“Professor Quirrell!” said Hagrid. “Dahlia, Professor Quirrell will be one of your teachers at Hogwarts.”

“M-M-Miss P-P-Potter,” stammered Professor Quirrell, grasping Dahlia’s hand, “c-can’t t-tell you how p-pleased I am to meet you.”

“What sort of magic do you teach, Professor Quirrell?”

“D-Defense Against the D-D-Dark Arts,” said Professor Quirrell, as though he’d rather not think about it. “N-Not that you n-need it, eh, P-P-Potter?” He laughed nervously.

“What subjects are taught at Hogwarts?” Dahlia asked, looking up at the two of them.

“Well,” said Hagrid, “in first year there’s Defense, Potions, Herbology, History of Magic, Astronomy, Transfiguration, and Charms.”

“And what’s the difference between the last two?” Dahlia asked hesitantly, hoping this wasn’t a stupid question.

“Ah, v-very g-g-good,” said Professor Quirrell. “Ch-Ch-Charms changes the p-properties of a thing. T-T-Transfiguration changes the th-thing itself into s-something else. P-Perhaps we should tell her about s-some of the u-upper level subjects, Hagrid?” he suggested.

“Ah, right,” said Hagrid, thinking. “The electives you can choose starting in third year. Well, there’s Arithmancy and Divination - Arithmancy is number-based, mathematical fortune-telling, while Divination is fortune-telling using so-called airier and more artsy methods. Ancient Runes has three uses - so you can decipher ancient language, so you can construct and deconstruct wards, and so you can predict the futures of individual people. Care of Magical Creatures is an obvious one - it’s all in the name. Same with Muggle Studies. You can request something like Healing or Alchemy if you’d like, but it takes a whole petition of students.”

“A-and it’s really only for o-older students,” Professor Quirrell added. “You’ll be g-getting all your equipment, I suppose, M-Miss P-Potter? I’ve g-got to pick up a new b-book on vampires, m-myself.” He looked terrified at the very thought.

But the others wouldn’t let Professor Quirrell keep Dahlia to himself. It took almost ten minutes to get away from them all. At last, Hagrid managed to make himself heard over the babble.

“Must get on - lots to buy. Come on, Dahlia.”

Doris Crockford shook Dahlia’s hand one last time, and Hagrid led them through the bar and out into a small, walled courtyard, again unassuming, where there was nothing but a rubbish bin and a few weeds.

Hagrid grinned at Dahlia. “Told you, didn’t I? Told you you was famous. Even Professor Quirrell was trembling to meet you - mind you, he’s usually trembling.”

“Is he always that nervous?”

“Oh, yeah. Poor bloke. Brilliant mind. He was fine while he was studying out of books, but then he took a year off to get some firsthand experience… They say he met vampires in the Black Forest, and there was a nasty bit of trouble with a hag - never been the same since. Scared of the students, scared of his own subject - now, where’s me umbrella?”

Vampires? Hags? Dahlia’s head was swimming. Hagrid, meanwhile, was counting bricks in the wall above the rubbish bin.

“Three up… two across…” he muttered. “Right, stand back, Dahlia.”

He tapped the wall three times with the point of his umbrella.

The brick he had touched quivered - it wriggled - in the middle, a small hole appeared - it grew wider and wider - a second later they were facing an archway large enough even for Hagrid, an archway onto a cobblestone street that twisted and turned out of sight.

“Welcome,” said Hagrid, “to Diagon Alley.”

He grinned at Dahlia’s amazement. They stepped through the archway. Dahlia looked quickly over her shoulder and saw the archway shrink instantly back into solid wall.

The sun shone brightly on a stack of cauldrons outside the nearest shop. Potages - Cauldrons - All Sizes - Copper, Brass, Pewter, Silver - Self Stirring - Collapsible, said a sign hanging over them.

“Yeah, you’ll be needing one,” said Hagrid. “But we gotta get your money first.”

Dahlia wished she had about eight more eyes. She turned her head in every direction as they walked up the street, trying to look at everything at once: the shops, the things outside them, the people doing their shopping. A plump woman outside an Apothecary was shaking her head as they passed, saying, “Dragon liver, seventeen Sickles an ounce, they’re mad…”

A low, soft hooting came from a dark shop with a sign saying Eeylops Owl Emporium - Tawny, Screech, Barn, Brown, and Snowy. Several girls of about Dahlia’s age were pasted outside a department store window advertising itself in fancy lettering as Gladrags Wizardwear. “Look at that new set of dress robes,” a girl sighed longingly over a pretty pink set of robes fashioned like an eighteenth-century ball gown. Several boys of about Dahlia’s age had their noses pressed against a window with broomsticks in it. “Look,” one of them said, “the new Nimbus Two Thousand - fastest ever -”

There were shops selling telescopes and strange silver instruments Dahlia had never seen before, windows stacked with barrels of bat spleens and eels’ eyes, tottering piles of spell books, quills, and rolls of parchment, potion bottles, globes of the moon…

“Gringotts,” said Hagrid.

They had reached a snowy white building that towered over the other little shops. Standing beside its burnished bronze doors, wearing a uniform of scarlet and gold, was -

“Yeah, that’s a goblin,” said Hagrid quietly as they walked up the white stone steps toward him. The goblin was about six inches shorter even than tiny Dahlia. He had a swarthy, clever face, a pointed beard and, Dahlia noticed, very long fingers and feet. He bowed as they walked inside. More goblin guards met them beside a new pair of doors, and these were also male. In fact, Dahlia would never see a single female goblin in all her time at Gringotts.

The second pair of doors were silver this time, with words engraved upon them:

_Enter, stranger, but take heed_

_Of what awaits the sin of greed_

_For those who take, but do not earn_

_Must pay most dearly in their turn._

_So if you seek beneath our floors_

_A treasure that was never yours,_

_Thief, you have been warned, beware_

_Of finding more than treasure there._

“Like I said, you’d be mad to try and rob it,” said Hagrid.

A pair of goblins bowed them through the silver doors and they were in a vast marble hall. About a hundred more goblins were sitting on high stools behind a long counter, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing coins in brass scales, examining precious stones through eyeglasses. There were too many doors to count leading off the hall, and yet more goblins were showing people in and out of these. Hagrid and Dahlia made for the counter.

“Morning,” said Hagrid to a free goblin. “We’ve come to take some money out of Miss Dahlia Potter’s safe.”

“You have her key, sir?”

“Got it here somewhere,” said Hagrid, which was not the most reassuring thing to hear about the key to your own personal limitless trust fund, and he started emptying his pockets onto the counter, scattering a handful of moldy dog biscuits over the goblin’s book of numbers. The goblin wrinkled his nose. Looking away, embarrassed again, Dahlia watched a goblin on their right weighing a pile of rubies as big as glowing coals.

“Got it,” said Hagrid at last, holding up a tiny golden key.

The goblin looked at it closely.

“That seems to be in order.”

“And I’ve also got a letter here from Professor Dumbledore,” said Hagrid importantly, throwing out his chest. “It’s about the You Know What in vault seven hundred and thirteen.”

The goblin read the letter carefully.

“Very well,” he said, handing it back to Hagrid. “I will have someone take you down to both vaults. Griphook!”

Griphook was yet another goblin, and yet another male. Once Hagrid had crammed all the dog biscuits back inside his pockets, he and Dahlia followed Griphook toward one of the doors leading off the hall.

“What’s the You Know What in vault seven hundred and thirteen?” Dahlia asked.

“Can’t tell you that,” said Hagrid mysteriously. “Very secret. Hogwarts business. Dumbledore’s trusted me. More than my job’s worth, to tell you that.”

Griphook held the door open for them. Dahlia, who had expected more marble, was surprised. They were in a narrow stone passageway lit with flaming torches. It sloped steeply downward and there were little railway tracks on the floor.

“Are these mines?” Dahlia asked.

“Goblins are miners,” said Griphook unexpectedly. “And fine jewel and metal workers as well. We live underground.”

Griphook whistled and a mining cart came hurtling up the tracks toward them. They climbed in - Hagrid with some difficulty - and were off.

At first they just hurtled through a maze of twisting passages. Dahlia hunkered down in the cart tightly and braced herself for the curves as the cold air rushed past her face and through her hair. She tried to remember left, right, right, left, middle fork, right, left, but it was impossible. The rattling cart seemed to know its own way because Griphook wasn’t steering.

Dahlia’s eyes stung as the cold air rushed past them, but she kept them wide open. Once, she thought she saw a burst of fire at the end of a passage right before they rounded a corner. Then they plunged even deeper, passing an underground lake where huge stalactites and stalagmites grew from the ceiling and floor.

“Hagrid, are you alright?” Dahlia called to Hagrid over the noise of the cart.

“Don’t talk to me just now, I think I’m gonna be sick,” said Hagrid.

He did look very green, and when the cart stopped at last beside a small door in the passage wall, Hagrid got out and had to lean against the wall to stop his knees from trembling. Dahlia watched him from the corner of her eye, concerned. She herself seemed to be fine. The ride had even been rather exhilarating.

This vault number - _her_ vault number, the only one until seventeen - was six hundred and eighty seven.

Griphook unlocked the door with the golden key and then handed the key back to Dahlia. A lot of green smoke came billowing out, but as Hagrid had said, it was harmless. As it cleared, Dahlia gasped in awe. Inside were mounds of gold Galleons. Columns of silver Sickles. Heaps of little bronze Knuts.

“All yours,” smiled Hagrid.

All Dahlia’s - it was incredible. The Dursleys couldn’t have known about this or they’d have had it from her faster than blinking. How often had they complained how much Dahlia cost them to keep? And all the time there had been a fortune belonging to her, an endless fortune, buried deep under London. This was just the start.

Hagrid went to pile some of it into a bag for Dahlia, but Dahlia held him back gently, her hands shaking. “No, wait, I’ve got it,” she said, smiling. She piled plenty of it into a bag, probably more than Hagrid himself would have done. The key, given to her so surreptitiously by Griphook perhaps for her considerate question, was now buried deep inside her pocket.

Once Dahlia was done, Hagrid turned to Griphook. “Vault seven hundred and thirteen now, please, and can we go more slowly?”

“One speed only,” said Griphook.

As they got back in the cart, Dahlia asked Griphook, “So I have this vault and the Potter one?”

“Correct,” said Griphook. “This vault is more expensive, pretty deep down, but the Potter vault is one of the deepest and oldest vaults we have. Much grander than this one. Heaviest protections. Fantastical ancient treasures.”

They were going even deeper now and gathering speed as they talked rather calmly. The air became colder and colder as they hurtled around tight corners. They went rattling over an underground ravine before coming out on the other side to more stone passageways lit by flaming torches. 

Vault seven hundred and thirteen had no keyhole.

“Stand back,” said Griphook importantly. He stroked the door with one of his long fingers and it simply melted away.

“If anyone but a Gringotts goblin tried that, they’d be sucked through the door and trapped in there,” said Griphook. “A different kind of trick from the poisonous fumes of your own vault. Different still from the heaviest protections, like the ones on the Potter vault.”

“What do those entail?” Dahlia asked, frowning.

“The minute someone who doesn’t belong touches anything, it endlessly multiplies until the thief suffocates under a pile of fake gold. They can’t get back to the door, but even if they managed to do so, it’s closed itself and locked,” said Griphook. “Don’t worry, Miss Potter. We take good care of your treasures here at Gringotts.”

“This trap doesn’t seem so horrible,” Dahlia pointed out.

“Not until you take into account that we only check to see if anyone’s inside about once every ten years,” said Griphook with a rather nasty grin.

There wasn’t much inside vault seven hundred and thirteen. Only a grubby little package wrapped up in brown paper lying on the floor, so small and nondescript Dahlia didn’t notice it until she looked closer. Hagrid picked up the package and tucked it deep inside his coat. Dahlia longed to know what was in the package, but knew better than to ask.

“Come on, back in this infernal cart, and don’t talk to me on the way back, it’s best if I keep me mouth shut,” said Hagrid.

-

One wild cart ride later they stood blinking in the sunlight outside Gringotts. Oddly enough, Aunt Petunia’s lessons came back to Dahlia in this moment, a rather painful reminder of times past. Still, what would have been Aunt Petunia’s advice was good. Don’t save your money, but only spend it on classy things that will really look good or that you really want.

Still, she didn’t have to know how many Galleons there were to a pound to know that inside her jangling bag of money and gold coins was more money than Dudley Dursley had ever gotten in his whole life.

“Might as well get your uniform,” said Hagrid, nodding toward a little specialty clothing store, high-end and full of newly tailored robes, that said Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. “Listen, Dahlia, would you mind if I slipped off for a pick-me-up in the Leaky Cauldron? I hate them Gringotts carts.” He did still look a bit sick, so Dahlia entered Madam Malkin’s shop alone, feeling nervous.

Madam Malkin was a squat, smiling witch dressed all in mauve. 

“Hogwarts, dear?” she said, when Dahlia started to speak. “Got the lot here - a young man your age being fitted up just now, in fact.”

In the back of the shop, a boy with a pale, pointed face was standing on a footstool while a second witch pinned up his long black robes. It appeared Madam Malkin hired mostly women. Madam Malkin stood Dahlia on a stool next to the pale, sharp-featured boy with white blond hair, slipped a long robe over her head, and began to pin it to the right length.

“Hello,” said the boy. “Hogwarts, too?”

“Yes,” said Dahlia.

“My father’s next door buying my books and mother’s up the street looking at wands,” said the boy. 

He had a bored, drawling voice as if he came from someplace well to do, but out in the country, Dahlia knew from her etiquette training. As he spoke, his grey eyes roved around in a state of perpetual sarcastic amusement, almost alive with energy. He seemed to be restless for someone to talk to, Dahlia realized from her extensive experience being friends with boys, and might be a bit of a character when it came to conversation and jokes at others’ expense. He was amused by everything and interested by nothing.

“Lucky you. I think I’m going to have to do it all myself,” said Dahlia, smiling.

He raised an eyebrow. “You can’t honestly tell me your parents just left you here?”

“Well, they couldn’t help it. They’re dead,” said Dahlia with cheerful but blunt politeness. “I am here with someone, but they suddenly took ill. I don’t know when they’ll be back.”

“Oh, sorry,” said the boy, not deeply troubled but realizing he’d just stepped into a nasty subject. “Perhaps I shouldn’t be talking about what my parents are getting me.”

Dahlia laughed. “No, it’s alright,” she said. “It’s nice to talk to someone else who’s going. It’s all rather exciting, isn’t it?”

“As exciting as school can be,” he said, smirking and looking skeptical, raising an eyebrow. 

“What’s the one thing you’re looking forward to most?” said Dahlia. “I can’t wait for my wand.”

“The wand is going to be incredible, I’ll allow that. But, well, I know what I do want that I can’t have,” said the boy. “After this I’m going to drag my parents off to look at racing brooms. I don’t see why first years can’t have their own.” Yes, that sounded just like a boy. “I think I’ll bully father into getting me one and smuggle it in somehow.”

Dahlia laughed out loud, then put a hand over her mouth as the boy flushed pink and looked rather offended.

“Are you laughing at me?” he demanded.

“No, no, sorry, it’s just - is your father easy to bully?” she asked, amused. “I know someone that I actually kind of like who’s always bullying their parents,” she was thinking of Dudley, “so I’m always curious.”

“Well…” The boy winced. “Not exactly,” he muttered, looking at his feet. “But I’ve been taking flying lessons for years!” he added, looking up. “I play Quidditch. Father says it’s a crime if I’m not picked to play for my house team, and I must say, I agree.”

Yes, he was definitely bragging to impress. Dahlia guessed Quidditch was a macho broom-involving sport. She couldn’t tell if he was bragging because she was a girl or because she was his first future fellow student.

“That’s very nice,” said Dahlia, smiling politely.

“Know what house you’ll be in yet?”

Schools often had houses, Dahlia knew in a calm frame of mind, so she knew the basics of what he was saying. “No,” she said, suddenly worried. “Am I supposed to?”

The boy smirked. “Well…” he said slowly. 

“Oh, no!”

He laughed at her dismay. “I’m kidding,” he said. “No one really knows until they get there. You’re not missing anything. But I know I’ll be in Slytherin, all our family have been - imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?”

“Mm,” said Dahlia noncommittally.

“I say, look at that man!” said the boy suddenly, nodding toward the front window. Hagrid was standing there, grinning at Dahlia and pointing at two large ice cream cones to show he couldn’t come in.

“That’s Hagrid,” said Dahlia. “He works at Hogwarts.”

“Oh,” said the boy, “I’ve heard of him. He’s a sort of servant, isn’t he?”

“How classist of you,” said Dahlia, rather more coldly. “He’s the gamekeeper, if that’s what you mean.”

“Classist,” the boy scoffed. “Either you are a servant or you’re not.”

“But technically it’s just a job. Is everyone who has a job a servant?” Dahlia argued.

“No,” said the boy as if she was being very dim. “Only the people who serve other people like they’re elves. Hence, servant.” His eyes widened sarcastically. “Anyway, I’ve heard that man’s a sort of _savage_ \- lives in a hut on the school grounds and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire to his bed.”

“He’s extremely intelligent, I’ll have you know,” said Dahlia frigidly, beginning not to like this boy at all. “And not at all like you’ve heard. He does drink a bit much, but that doesn’t make him a savage. It makes him a barfly. There are lots of those.”

“Of course,” said the boy with a slight sneer.

“Just because he’s poor and he has a low end job -!” Dahlia began heatedly.

“He was expelled,” said the boy flatly.

“And that makes him a terrible person?!”

“It makes him an idiot.”

“Neither of us knows the circumstances. And I think he’s brilliant,” said Dahlia coldly.

 _“Do_ you?” the boy sneered. “So he’s with you because you don’t even have a family. Please tell me your parents were at least our kind.”

“They were a witch and wizard, if that’s what you mean.”

“I really don’t think they should let the other sort in, do you? They’re just not the same, they’ve never been brought up to know our ways.”

“You could teach them,” Dahlia challenged.

“But it wouldn’t be the same. Some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter, imagine! I think they should keep it in the old wizarding families. What’s your surname, anyway? I know a girl named Pansy Parkinson. Next time we meet, I could introduce you.”

But before Dahlia could answer, Madam Malkin said, “That’s you, done my dear,” and Dahlia hopped off the footstool.

She was hurt, though she’d never admit to it, so before she could say too much she said quickly, “I’m sorry, I have to go, goodbye.” And she hurried away.

“Well, I’ll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose,” said the drawling boy curiously.

Dahlia was rather quiet as she ate the ice cream Hagrid had bought her (chocolate and raspberry with chopped nuts).

“What’s up?” said Hagrid.

“Nothing,” Dahlia lied. They stopped to buy parchment and quills. Dahlia cheered up a bit when she found a bottle of ink that changed color as you wrote. She was briefly happy when she bought a lovely, elegant eagle feather quill. When they had left the shop, she said, “Hagrid, what’s Quidditch?”

“Blimey, Dahlia, I keep forgetting how little you know - not knowing about Quidditch!”

“Don’t make me feel worse,” said Dahlia. She told Hagrid about the pale boy in Madam Malkin’s.

“- and he said people from Muggle families shouldn’t even be allowed in -”

“You’re not _from_ a Muggle family. If he’d known who you _were_ \- he’s grown up knowing your name if his parents are wizarding folk. You saw what everyone in the Leaky Cauldron was like when they saw you.”

“It just started out so _good,”_ said Dahlia miserably. “We were both intelligent and we had the same sense of humor and we were connecting on all these subjects, and then - I had to go and find out he was a rich snob who hates people from Muggle families.”

“Well what does he know about it,” said Hagrid, “some of the best I ever saw were the only ones with magic in them in a long line of Muggles. That’ll probably be you. I mean, look at your mum! Look what she had for a sister!”

Aunt Petunia had once been kind to Dahlia and she was feeling the weight of a lot of expectations as it was, so this was not as comforting as it had been intended.

“Hey,” said Hagrid, putting a hand on her shoulder, for there were tears stinging her eyes, “don’t listen to him. _You’re doing fine._ And you will do. You know, he may be a prat, but he probably didn’t mean anything by it. He just missed all the obvious cues flying right in his face. If he doesn’t like you, that’s his loss, not yours.”

Dahlia smiled. “... Thanks, Hagrid. So what _is_ Quidditch? A broom sport?”

“Exactly. It’s our sport. Witch and wizard sport - girls can play, too. Co-ed all the way. It’s like - like football in the Muggle world - everyone follows Quidditch - played up in the air on broomsticks and there’s four balls - sort of hard to explain the rules.”

“And what are Slytherin and Hufflepuff?”

“School houses. There’s four. Everyone says Hufflepuffs are a lot of duffers, but -”

“I bet I’m in Hufflepuff,” said Dahlia bitterly, feeling determined to be gloomy.

“Better Hufflepuff than Slytherin,” said Hagrid darkly. “There’s not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn’t in Slytherin. You Know Who was one.”

“Vol-, sorry - You Know Who was at Hogwarts?”

“Years and years ago,” said Hagrid.

They bought Dahlia’s school books in a shop called Flourish and Blotts where the shelves were stacked to the ceiling with books as large as paving stones bound in leather; books the size of postage stamps covered in silk; books full of peculiar symbols and a few books with nothing in them at all. The symbols were ancient runes, the books were written in invisible ink, and the postage stamp books were for the fairies - Dahlia asked Hagrid.

Even Dudley, who never read, would have been wild to get his hands on some of these. Despite all Hagrid’s protests, Dahlia bought several books on high-level, advanced forms of potions and magic far beyond her age level. “I just want to see the mechanics of it,” she said excitedly, “how it works, what it does!”

“Carry that too far and you’ll get into forbidden books,” Hagrid warned.

“No knowledge should be forbidden,” Dahlia dismissed, paying for the extra books on magic, and Hagrid frowned. “Besides, aren’t Potters supposed to be brilliant witches, wizards, and especially Potioneers? I want to do well. That means knowing as much as possible about what I’m doing.”

They had another argument over scales, telescope, and cauldron. Dahlia finally asked the clerk at Potages if she could buy a higher-end cauldron despite what it said on her supplies list.

“Oh, yeah, no one checks that,” he dismissed. “Silver and gold are gaudy and needless, but copper all the way is the way to go in equipment. That’s why pewter is cheapest, bronze is next up, and copper is at the top in class and quality price range. They just say pewter because pewter brews slower and they want everyone to be able to afford what they’re asking for. Fast brewing could actually make Potions assignments easier - at Hogwarts, they’re in class and all timed.”

So a triumphant Dahlia bought a copper set of scales, a collapsible copper cauldron, and a collapsible copper telescope - despite Hagrid’s irritable grumbles. Then they visited the Apothecary, which was fascinating enough to make up for its horrible smell, a mixture of bad eggs and rotted cabbages. Barrels of slimy stuff stood on the floor; jars of herbs, dried roots, and bright powders lined the walls; bundles of feathers, strings of fangs, and snarled claws hung from the ceiling. While Hagrid asked the man behind the counter for a supply of some basic potion ingredients for Dahlia, Dahlia herself examined silver unicorn horns at twenty-one Galleons each and miniscule, glittery black beetle eyes (five Knuts a scoop).

Next they picked out a set of crystal vials and a pair of black Hungarian Horntail dragon hide protective gloves. Both expensive, but again, very classy.

Outside the Apothecary, Hagrid checked Dahlia’s list again.

“Just your wand left - oh yeah, and I still haven’t got you a birthday present.”

Dahlia felt herself go red, still somewhat unused to presents especially from people she didn’t know well.

“You don’t have to -”

“I know I don’t have to. Tell you what, I’ll get your animal. Not a toad, toads went out of fashion years ago, you’d be laughed at - and I don’t like cats, they make me sneeze.”

“I like cats,” said Dahlia, frowning, thinking of fun times with Mrs Figg.

“Yeah, but what about an owl? They’re good, too, and dead useful on top of that. All the kids want owls. They carry your mail and everything.”

“That would be good to have as I don’t have a wizarding family…” Dahlia admitted. “Alright. The owl is good, too, and the owl has the usefulness in its favor. Also, you like them better and it’s your present. So… owl it is.”

Twenty minutes later, they left Eeylops Owl Emporium, which had been dark and full of rustling and flickering, jewel-bright eyes. Dahlia now carried a large cage that held a beautiful snowy owl, fast asleep with her head under her wing.

“Thank you, Hagrid,” she said, and she meant it. “Really, thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Hagrid. “Don’t expect you’ve had a lot of presents from them Dursleys. Just Ollivanders left now - only place for wands, Ollivanders, and you gotta have the best wand.”

A magic wand… this was what Dahlia had really been looking forward to.

The last shop was almost as unassuming as the Leaky Cauldron - narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters over the door read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC. A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window.

A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped inside. It was a tiny place, empty except for a single, spindly chair that Hagrid sat on to wait. Dahlia felt strangely as though she had just entered a very strict library, with an almost holy hush; she swallowed a lot of new questions that had just occurred to her and looked instead at the thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly right up to the ceiling. For some reason, the back of her neck prickled. The very dust and silence in here seemed to tingle with some secret magic.

“Good afternoon,” said a soft voice. Dahlia jumped. Hagrid must have jumped, too, because there was a loud crunching noise and he got quickly off the spindly chair. 

An old man was standing before them, his wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop.

“Hello,” said Dahlia awkwardly.

“Ah, yes,” said the man. “Yes, yes. I thought I’d be seeing you soon. Dahlia Potter.” It wasn’t a question. “You have your mother’s eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work.”

Mr Ollivander moved closer to Dahlia. Dahlia backed up. She wished Mr Ollivander would blink. Those silvery eyes were a bit creepy.

Mr Ollivander paused at her nervousness. He blinked once, and stopped moving forward.

“Your father, on the other hand,” he continued without interruption, “favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for Transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it - it’s really the wand that chooses the witch or wizard, of course.

“And that’s where…”

Mr Ollivander’s eyes had moved to the scar on her forehead.

“I’m sorry to say I sold the wand that did it,” he said softly. “Thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands… well, if I’d know what that wand was going out into the world to do…”

“It’s not your fault, Mr Ollivander,” said Dahlia suddenly. 

Mr Ollivander paused in surprise. Then he sighed. “No, I suppose not,” he said. “But it does feel like it some days.” He shook his head. 

Then, to Dahlia’s relief, he spotted Hagrid.

“Rubeus! Rubeus Hagrid! How nice to see you again… oak, sixteen inches, rather bendy, wasn’t it?”

“It was, sir, yes,” said Hagrid.

“How do you remember all this?” Dahlia asked Mr Ollivander. 

“Mind magic, Miss Potter,” he said cheerfully. “It can do all sorts of things. Yes, Rubeus, it was a good wand, that one. But I suppose they snapped it in half when you got expelled?” said Mr Ollivander, suddenly stern.

“Er - yes, they did, yes,” said Hagrid, shuffling his feet. “I’ve still got the pieces, though,” he added brightly.

“But you don’t _use_ them?” said Mr Ollivander sharply.

“Oh, no, sir,” said Hagrid quickly. Dahlia noticed he gripped his pink umbrella very tightly as he spoke.

“Hmm,” said Mr Ollivander, giving Hagrid a piercing look. Dahlia wondered just how far Mr Ollivander’s mind powers went. “Well, now - Miss Potter. Let me see.” He pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. “Which is your wand arm?”

“Er - well, I’m right handed,” said Dahlia.

“Hold out your arm. That’s it.” He measured Dahlia from shoulder to wrist, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit, and round her head. As he measured, he said, “Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful, magical substance, Miss Potter. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another witch’s wand.”

Dahlia suddenly realized that the tape measure, which was now measuring her nostrils, was doing this on its own. Mr Ollivander was flitting around the shelves, taking down boxes.

“That will do,” he said, and the tape measure crumpled into a heap on the floor. “Right then, Miss Potter. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave.”

Dahlia took the wand and (feeling foolish) waved it around a bit, but Mr Ollivander snatched it out of her hand almost at once.

“Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try -”

Dahlia tried - but she had hardly raised the wand when it, too, was snatched back by Mr Ollivander.

“No, no - here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out.”

Dahlia tried. And tried. She had no idea what Mr Ollivander was waiting for. The pile of tried wands was mounting higher and higher on the spindly chair, but the more wands Mr Ollivander pulled from the shelves, the happier he seemed to become.

“Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we’ll find the perfect match here somewhere - I wonder, now - yes, why not - cypress and phoenix feather, eleven inches, quite flexible.”

Dahlia took the wand. She felt a sudden warmth in her fingers. She raised the wand above her head, brought it swishing down through the dusty air and a stream of red and gold sparks shot from the end like a firework - phoenix fire - throwing dancing spots of light on the walls. Hagrid whooped and clapped and Mr Ollivander cried, “Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. 

“I should let you know, Miss Potter,” he added, amused, “that a cypress wand does not automatically make you a Gryffindor.”

“What do you mean?” said Dahlia, confused.

“Ah, right, you don’t know. Gryffindor is the house of daring, courage, and nerve, Miss Potter, with Ravenclaw the house of intelligence, wit, and creativity; Hufflepuff the house of hard work, justice, kindness, and patience; Slytherin the house of deep emotional loyalty, ambition, and the willingness to do whatever works and whatever it takes to get what one wants - also known as cunning. You will try on a mind-reading Hat at Hogwarts; it will tell you which house you belong to.”

Put that way, none of the houses sounded so bad. How awful, Dahlia thought, that there were all these house reputations fighting against each other.

“I made the joke because of what a cypress wand choosing a witch means about the wand’s caster,” Ollivander continued. “Cypress wands are associated with nobility. The great medieval wandmaker, Geraint Ollivander, wrote that he was always honoured to match a cypress wand, for he knew he was meeting a witch or wizard who would die a heroic death. Fortunately, in these less blood-thirsty times, the possessors of cypress wands are rarely called upon to lay down their lives, though doubtless many of them would do so if required. Wands of cypress find their soul mates among the brave, the bold and the self-sacrificing: those who are unafraid to confront the shadows in their own and others’ natures.

“Hence why I said: a cypress wand does not automatically make you a Gryffindor. But it does make you unafraid of confronting the shadows in others, fearless in confronting the shadows of your own, and particularly prone to courageous self-sacrifice in the name of people or a cause. Your wand flexibility makes you highly adaptable and your wand length makes you suited to more elegant, subtle, and refined spellcasting. Your core is a distant, choosy, independent core, rather like the creature it comes from. That it has chosen you is a great and rare honor, as it is quite versatile, but you will have to work hard for its loyalty. So start spellcasting and studying as soon as possible. I suspect you have a lot to prove anyway, being a famous and tiny girl, so that shouldn’t be a problem for you."

Dahlia made a mental note of this advice. It was a good point.

“In any case… how curious… how very curious…”

He put Dahlia’s wand back in its box and wrapped it in brown paper, still muttering, “Curious… curious…”

“I’m sorry,” said Dahlia, “but what else is curious?”

Mr Ollivander fixed Dahlia with his pale stare.

“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Miss Potter, with my mind magic. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather - just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its twin and match - why, its match gave you that scar on your forehead.”

Dahlia swallowed.

“Yes, thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the witch, remember… I think we must expect great things from you, Miss Potter… After all, He Who Must Not Be Named did great things - terrible, yes, but great. So I have to admit I am very curious about the girl connected to him. Furthermore, the girl whose wand indicates self sacrifice, the very thing he himself would never have done.”

Dahlia shivered. She decided she did _not_ like Mr Ollivander. She paid seven gold Galleons for her wand, and Mr Ollivander bowed them from his shop.

-

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky as Dahlia and Hagrid made their way back down Diagon Alley, back through the wall, back through the Leaky Cauldron, now empty. Dahlia didn’t speak at all as they walked down the road; she barely even noticed how people were gawking at them on the Underground, laden as they were with all their funny-shaped packages, with the snowy owl asleep in its cage on Dahlia’s lap. Up another escalator, out into Paddington station; Dahlia only realized where they were when Hagrid tapped her on the shoulder.

“Got time for a bite to eat before your train leaves,” he said.

He bought Dahlia a hamburger and they sat down on plastic seats to eat them. Dahlia kept looking around. Everything looked so strange, somehow. 

Forty-eight hours ago, she had been one of those ordinary people. Now she was Dahlia Potter, famous and wealthy witch from wizarding parents and a Muggle family, all of her witch belongings straight wealthy class, owner of a snowy owl and a cypress and phoenix feather wand. It was like she no longer belonged here, like after her first trip into the wizarding world, the first headfirst dive, she’d never quite come back out again. She had changed.

“You all right, Dahlia? You’re very quiet,” said Hagrid.

Dahlia wasn’t sure she could explain. She’d just had the best birthday of her life - and yet - she chewed her hamburger, trying to find the words.

“Everyone thinks I’m special,” she said at last. “All those people in the Leaky Cauldron, Professor Quirrell, Mr Ollivander… but I don’t know anything about magic at all. How can they expect great things? I’m famous and I can’t even remember what I’m famous for. I don’t know what happened when Vol-, sorry - I mean, the night my parents died.”

Hagrid leaned across the table. Behind the beard and the eyebrows he wore a very kind smile.

“Don’t you worry, Dahlia. You’ll learn fast enough. Everyone starts at the beginning at Hogwarts, you’ll be just fine. Just be yourself. I know it’s hard. You’ve been singled out, and that’s always hard. But you’ll have a great time at Hogwarts - I did - still do, as a matter of fact.”

Hagrid helped Dahlia onto the train that would take her back to the Dursleys, then handed her an envelope.

“Your ticket for Hogwarts,” he said. “First of September - King’s Cross - it’s all on your ticket. Any problems with the Dursleys, send me a letter with your owl, she’ll know where to find me… See you soon, Dahlia.”

The train pulled out of the station. Dahlia wanted to watch Hagrid until he was out of sight; she rose in her seat and pressed her nose against the window, for once not caring who saw, but she blinked and Hagrid had gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I now know Dahlia's house, I decided after writing the end of this chapter, and I decided to share it with all of you. She will be a Ravenclaw, so that's going in the tags.
> 
> But! As things haven't changed with King's Cross, she is obviously still going to meet Ron on the Express, along with of course Hermione, Neville, and all those other people - and an unexpected character or two. I will actually be making Hermione a Ravenclaw because of plot related changes, which is not a big stretch. Padma Patil will be taking Ron's place.
> 
> Ron and Neville will also still be in the story, just not quite as big of players. Best of both worlds.
> 
> Anyway, needless to say, chapter seven is where divergence gets BIG.


End file.
